


Stripped as you are

by mswhich



Category: Original Work
Genre: Abuse of Authority, Coercion, Dubious Consent, Infidelity, Internalized Homophobia, Intrigue, Jealousy, M/M, Obsession, Overstimulation, Power Dynamics, Power Imbalance, Praise Kink, Voyeurism, medieval setting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-20
Updated: 2020-09-20
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:00:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 31,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26554738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mswhich/pseuds/mswhich
Summary: Dain knew this was trouble and feared it would end badly. He almost—almost—wished the boy had never caught his attention.Dain is a married duke and Thomas is a castle serving boy. Thomas is beautiful, and Dain wants him.A love story, through a glass darkly.
Relationships: Original Male Character/Original Male Character, Young Male Servant/Closeted Married Lord
Comments: 32
Kudos: 56
Collections: Darkest Night 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Enisy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enisy/gifts).



> When I started this work, I did not anticipate that it was going to turn into a 12-chapter monster, and yet, here we are. It's not as dark as I initially intended it to be, and it grew a lot more plot than expected, but ultimately I'm pleased with how it turned out. (And I hope you are too.)
> 
> This is my first original, non-fandom work to be posted on AO3, so it's a real departure from my usual comfort zone. If you enjoy it, I would love for you to leave me a comment and let me know.
> 
> Couple of things: my knowledge of the medieval era is based mostly on the Merlin TV show, and a little bit on the 1993 Robin Hood movie. I did my best with limited time to do some research and not completely embarrass myself with descriptions of clothing, castle architecture, etc., but, uh, please don't try to learn medieval history from this work.
> 
> Also, while Dain and other characters frequently refer to Thomas as a boy, he's intended to be above the age of consent. It's not explicitly stated, but I see him as being 18 or 19.

#  _Prelude_

The weather is what Dain remembered the most, afterward; the diamond-blue sky with not a cloud in it, the breath of thawing earth in the air. A gorgeous spring day, suitable for lying in the grass beneath a tree and daydreaming, for taking a brisk swim in the river, and perhaps for drinking, later, with a friend. A day for carelessness and poetry.

A day cracked in two by Brother Theodore, his face white, running towards him from the castle with robes flying. And Dain, rising to his feet slowly, as though moving through clear water. 

An accident, Theodore said, breathless, avoiding his eyes. Your father, your brother. 

_Tristan?_ Dain heard himself say, distorted and strange as though he were listening from a long distance away. 

Brother Theodore’s mouth trembled. The healers could do nothing, he said. It had happened in an instant. And then he must have kept speaking, but everything after that blurred into a haze of soundless moving lips. Later, Dain could remember nothing of what he’d said. He could only remember the sky, blue and gorgeous, a shocking offense against nature. Surely nothing so beautiful could be allowed to exist on a day when life had shattered around him like so much broken glass.

#  _I._

“I don’t want this,” Dain said, knowing it would make no difference but unable to keep silent.

Brother Theodore glanced up from where he’d been adjusting the sash of Dain’s ceremonial dress. “It hardly matters what you want, my lord,” he said, “if you’ll forgive the impertinence.”

The dressing chamber was small, but the array of full-length mirrors on every wall gave it the illusion of being a much larger space, filled with more people than the two currently in it. Everywhere Dain looked, he saw dozens of himself reflected into infinity, and all of them with the same pinched look on their faces.

He blew an impatient breath out through his nose. “Impertinence,” he said. “Says the man who taught me my letters when I was still in short pants.”

Theodore gave a tight smile, intent on pinning the fine satin into place. “You make me sound like an old, doddering man, my lord.”

“Stop calling me that,” Dain said. 

“It is only the truth,” Theodore said, but mercifully left off the “my lord” this time. Dain chafed at the title even from strangers; from Theodore, it was nigh intolerable. He was barely a decade older than Dain, and the closest thing to a friend that Dain had at the castle.

“I hate this, Theodore. I _hate_ it.” Dain sounded like a toddler throwing a tantrum, but he couldn’t help himself. He was still, nominally, a free man, but with every minute that passed, his fate drew nearer. It was as though some deep, feral part of him thought that if he simply kicked and fussed enough, he could stop it from happening. 

Theodore sighed. “You are the Duke now, Dain,” he said, with a hint of sharpness entering his voice. “You must lead. You must provide an heir. There is no one else.”

Dain didn’t want the duchy, had never wanted the duchy. He’d only wanted to study his letters and live his life unburdened by the chains of rule. He didn’t want to make decisions on behalf of an entire people; he was barely capable of making decisions for his own self. And he _certainly_ didn’t want to marry some earl’s daughter and— 

Dain shivered, unable to even complete the thought. “Theodore,” he said, curling in on himself, “I...don’t know if I can.” 

Theodore’s hands stilled, his brow drawing into a severe line.

Dain’s thoughts, as they so often did, drifted to Tristan. Handsome, clever Tristan, who’d had the _unbelievable_ temerity to be killed in a carriage accident along with their father, leaving Dain alone, the only one left in the succession. Tristan would have understood. Tristan would never have made him go through with this. _Little brother,_ he’d have laughed, _no one expects_ you _to marry, for pity’s sake._ Dain would have blushed red and rolled his eyes, and Tristan would have put his strong arm around Dain’s shoulder and pulled him close.

Dain swallowed hard, forcing back the pinpricks of tears threatening to fall. Tristan was gone. There was no one to protect him. He’d thought perhaps Theodore...but Theodore was in the process of shoving him straight into the lion’s mouth.

“Theodore,” Dain said again, helpless and hopeless.

Theodore cleared his throat, stood, smoothed down a crease in Dain’s sash. “My lord,” he said deliberately. “I know it is not what you want. But you must manage it. The lady Beatrix is quite beautiful. And certain… things that might be tolerated otherwise…” He paused, searching for the right phrase. “Those things must be put aside when one bears the responsibility of rule,” he said finally. He focused intently on Dain’s sash, avoiding looking at his face. “I am sure you understand.”

Acid burned in Dain’s stomach. How could _Theodore_ , of all people— “ _You_ tolerated certain things quite well for a time,” he spat. 

Theodore’s eyes flared bright, then shuttered. He turned away from Dain, the message quite clear. They had never spoken openly about these things, and Theodore was not going to start today.

* * *

As a boy, Dain had sat at Theodore’s side for long afternoons of lessons, letting the young priest’s melodious voice roll over him as he pronounced declensions and conjugations. Theodore taught Dain his letters, taught him how to write his own name in beautiful, looping script. Dain loved the way it looked on the page, _Dain Frederick Longmont._ He’d practice it over and over again. When he formed the letters just so, Theodore would say _well done, Dain,_ and Dain would bask in the praise like a flower turning towards the sun.

As Dain grew older, his attention would sometimes drift to the line of Theodore’s jaw, to the sharp cut of the hair at the nape of his neck, to his clever, elegant fingers inking out calligraphy. _Eyes to your lesson,_ Theodore would murmur, and Dain would flush and turn back to the parchment. 

But young, fit Brother Theodore did not discourage Dain from sitting pressed tightly against him while they studied. He allowed Dain to rest his hand on Theodore’s thigh. Sometimes he’d rest his own hand at the small of Dain’s back, his thumb rubbing gentle circles over the fabric of Dain’s jerkin. Dain would hold himself perfectly, exquisitely still, afraid that if he drew attention to himself that Theodore would stop.

Tentative touches progressed to gentle stroking, to kisses on the cheek, and eventually to more thorough explorations in dark corners of the castle, Theodore’s lips on Dain’s, his tongue tracing carefully inside Dain’s mouth, his fingers carding gently through the hair at the nape of Dain’s neck. 

One wet, spring day, Theodore had followed Dain into the stables, empty that afternoon, and had slotted his thigh between Dain’s legs. He pressed his lips to Dain’s neck, sucking sweet kisses onto the sensitive skin there, and Dain squirmed against his leg, thrusting instinctively against him. _That’s it,_ Theodore had whispered, _that’s good_. It was only a few short minutes before Dain neared his peak and frantically whispered to Theodore that he was close, that he needed to stop, _please._

 _Go on,_ Theodore urged, and slipped his tongue into Dain’s mouth, swallowing Dain’s cries as he helplessly came. After, Theodore slid a hand into his own robes and stroked himself with a quick, practiced hand until he came as well, his face slack with pleasure. Dain leaned against the stable wall, gasping and wrung-out, and Theodore pressed a kiss to his cheek. _You did so well,_ he said. _You were so good._

Three days later, Dain’s father’s carriage skidded off a steep mountain path into oblivion, and when Dain went to Theodore’s chambers for comfort, Theodore refused to let him in. 

It wouldn’t be proper, he said.

Dain, half out of his mind with grief and shock, accepted this numbly and went back to his quarters. He laid insensate on his bed, staring at a gilt ceiling that held no answers or solace. Theodore was probably right, he thought in a daze. Better to spend a little time apart, so as not to draw suspicion.

He did not see Theodore again until the day of his wedding.

* * *

Now this man, who _knew what Dain tasted like,_ spoke to him of responsibility, of the weight of rule, of obligation. Hot prickling misery rose on Dain’s neck. He’d thought that maybe even after the wedding…that maybe Theodore…

Theodore’s face was cold and expressionless. “We needn’t speak of things that matter not, my lord,” he said. 

Dain wondered if this was what it felt like to die. Tendrils of ice wound through his spine, his gut, his heart, freezing him solid from the inside out. 

“Theodore,” he tried one last time, his voice thin and reedy.

“There, you are ready,” Theodore said, ignoring Dain and stepping back. 

The Dain in the mirror looked strikingly ducal in Longmont burgundy and silver. His sash was pinned perfectly, his epaulets draped over his sleeves, his buttons shiny and gleaming. He wanted to tear it all off; he wanted to _burn_ it.

Theodore was resplendent in his own ceremonial robes, with high collar and full skirts. They were used only for weddings, and Dain had never seen them before today. They fit Theodore well, the deep burgundy complementing his curly chestnut hair, the belted waist showing off his broad shoulders and narrow waist to fine effect.

Dain might hate Theodore, if he were able to feel anything at all.

“I will see you at the ceremony,” Theodore said, back turned, as he hurried through the door. The door was solid oak, carved from a single, massive tree at Dain’s father’s behest prior to his own wedding to Dain’s mother. _The last door a Longmont will walk through as a single man,_ the Duke had often said with pride.

One of the guards outside swung it closed, and it shut with a fatalistic boom.

Dain stood alone in the dressing room, a room where the Duke was dressed by his servants prior to official ceremonies, a room he’d never been in before today. A room decorated, like the rest of the castle, to his father’s tastes, thick and overpowering with gilt ornamentation and velvet hangings. 

A month ago he’d been nothing at all, just the younger son of the Duke of the third-largest duchy in the dominion, accustomed to a life of letters and poetry and safe in the knowledge that he’d never be expected to actually fight, or lead, or provide an heir, or any of the other responsibilities of rule. Dain was slender where his brother was broad, fine-boned where Tristan was sturdy. He had no talent for the lessons his brother excelled at—strategy, diplomacy, the politics of the court. Dain had instead kept to his poetry and calligraphy, to riding his horse, to drawing sketches and pictures for Tristan. (Tristan always, always asked for more, no matter how late the hour, no matter how tired he was; _Dain,_ he’d say, _you are a marvel. Do another._ And Dain would. For Tristan, always he would.)

Now Tristan was gone, he and his father both buried under six feet of spring earth, and Dain was the Duke. He could barely remember the rushed, hasty coronation. His father’s advisor, Lord Gerrolt, had to whisper his responses to him so he wouldn’t embarrass himself at the ceremony.

And today, a month later exactly, he’d be married, to a woman he’d met just once before.

He expelled a breath. The Lady Beatrix was perfectly lovely, by all reports. _Lovely long hair,_ his court advisors had told him. _Pretty blue eyes._ He’d pretended to be pleased, attempting to feign interest in the broadness of her hips and the swell of her breasts, stopping himself just barely from telling Lord Brucius that if he liked her hips so much, then _he_ could bleeding well get her with child.

Luckily, the meeting had ended before Dain could bring shame on himself and the duchy. He’d met Beatrix herself just after. She seemed pleasant enough, and she was kind to her servants. He imagined she’d make a decent mother. It could have been a lot worse. He knew that. He _knew._

But…the wedding night. When he thought of undressing her, his mind went completely blank. He’d spent the last several days desperately trying to stir up some sort of spark in himself at the thought of his wife-to-be’s nude form, and it was hopeless. If anything, imagining her breasts and her long hair caused him to wilt. 

Tristan used to jest with him all the time, pointing out some fair-haired lady in waiting and saying, _oh, but her hair’s not nearly short enough for you, is it, little brother? And her chest not broad enough!_ Dain would flush red and hiss at him to stop it, but Tristan would only laugh merrily. He’d known about Dain’s...preferences, since they’d both been old enough to grow hair in their nethers. No woman, no matter how legendary her beauty, had ever turned Dain’s head. 

It was a sickness; he knew that. But Tristan’s easy, thoughtless acceptance had made him feel that at least it was perhaps a sickness he could live with.

Now he had to get a woman with child. The entire duchy would be waiting for it. A new duke was vulnerable, Gerrolt had told him. A new, _young_ duke even more so, and a new, young duke without an heir…well, best to resolve that as soon as possible.

A knock came at the door, startling Dain out of his reverie. “Milord,” he heard Lord Gerrolt say, “it is time.”

The door, taller than a man by half and made from the kingdom’s stoutest oak, stood between all that he had known and all that he would have to become. 

On this side, Dain. On the other side, the Duke. 

Dain’s breath came fast and shallow. _I will crack in half,_ he thought. _I cannot bear this. How could anyone bear this._ The faces of Theodore, of Tristan, of Father, swirled in his mind. 

If only there were someone to soothe him and tell him that all would be well, someone to share this burden. But this burden rested solely on his shoulders, and it always would. Someone with his sickness could have no partner, no helpmate. He would be alone today, and he would be alone forever.

His chest was hollow, frozen, as though the ice freezing his heart had crowded out the grief and fear. Dain welcomed the numbness. _Perhaps_ I _cannot do this,_ he thought, _but the Duke can._ Dain straightened his back and lifted his chin, standing stiff and tall as he remembered Father standing.

 _I am the Duke,_ he told himself. The Dain who had sat on grassy meadows whiling away the summers was gone, just as dead as his brother. Only the Duke remained. 

_I know the court. I know the land. I am the Duke, and I will lead, because I must._

The guards swung the door open for him. With frozen heart and leaden limbs, the Duke of Longmont squared his jaw and walked through the great door, into his cold and unrelenting future.

* * *

Dain politely and correctly performed his role during the wedding ceremony, kissing his new bride chastely on the lips at the end of it. At the celebration afterward, he was polite and correct to his guests, listening with care to Lord Gerrolt’s whispered commentary on each advancing noble in the receiving line. He shook hands firmly with the Duke of Gretna and congratulated him on his new grandson. He inquired after the condition of the Baron of Fairmont’s granaries, damaged in the recent storms. He showed no signs of tiring or exhaustion even after greeting dozens upon dozens of visiting dignitaries. He took his place at the high table next to Beatrix and made polite, pleasant conversation throughout dinner. Dain’s behavior was faultless in all ways.

After dinner, Beatrix was surrounded by her ladies-in-waiting, and Dain took the opportunity to slip away for a short while, making his way to a relatively quiet spot of the hall. Gerrolt found him there a few moments later. He looked Dain up and down with flinty approval and said, “You’ve done well, lad.”

“Thank you,” Dain said automatically. “Your assistance was valuable today, Gerrolt.”

“My job, milord,” Gerrolt said. He was one of Dain’s father’s oldest advisors, serving the court since before Dain had been born. Dain had rarely seen his father without Gerrolt’s close-cropped silver hair and hawkish grey eyes nearby. 

His other two court advisors, who’d flanked Gerrolt during the wedding ceremony, had been scarce during the reception afterward. Dain knew Brucius mostly as the blond-haired man who resembled a sheepdog and gravitated toward the mead flagons at any dinner; he knew Aron barely at all, as he’d been away from the kingdom for the majority of the few weeks since Dain had become Duke.

“Aron and Brucius’s jobs as well, and yet I’ve seen them little this afternoon,” Dain said. 

Gerrolt inclined his head and arched a meaningful eyebrow. “As you say, milord,” he said.

Dain wondered at that, wishing he were better at navigating court intrigue. He felt some message was being passed that he was unable to understand. But before he could ask further, he saw, over Gerrolt’s shoulder, Brother Theodore approaching. 

“I believe, Gerrolt, that I will take some fresh air,” Dain said. “Would you advise Beatrix of my whereabouts and tell her that I shall return shortly?” Gerrolt nodded in acknowledgment. 

Dain made his way toward the nearest door, emerging through it into an enclosed, open-air courtyard. 

His hopes that Theodore would leave him alone were soon dashed. “Ah, there you are,” Theodore said from behind him, as though Dain had been difficult to find, as though he’d not been the center of attention and activity throughout the evening. “Dain, I—”

Dain turned to face him and smiled. Politely, courteously.

“You may refer to me as Lordship, Brother,” he said.

Theodore startled, his eyebrows lifting. “I—Dain—Lordship—just, if you need to talk—earlier, I didn’t mean to—”

Dain’s smile grew teeth. _Oh, you absolutely meant,_ he thought. “I certainly know where to find you, Brother. We thank you for your kindness on this day of our union.”

Theodore’s mouth worked, as though he were considering whether to say anything further. He folded his arms in front of himself, his eyes flickering to Dain’s face and then away. He didn’t know this Dain, didn’t know what to do with him.

A flicker of satisfaction glimmered deep inside Dain, lasting only a moment.

Theodore frowned, opened his mouth, then closed it again. A moment passed, and still Dain said nothing. Finally, Theodore nodded stiffly. “Lordship,” he said, then turned and went back into the main hall, disappearing into the throngs of people gathered there.

Dain stood alone under the silent, starry sky, and he felt nothing at all.

* * *

That night, beneath the canopy of his new wife’s bed, Dain politely and courteously performed his duties as a husband. He left his eyes closed for the duration, imagining a faceless, slender-hipped, broad-shouldered body beneath him. 

_That’s done,_ he thought. He’d thought he might feel relief, or perhaps even pride, when he managed to perform this task he’d been dreading for so long. But he felt only a cold satisfaction. Just one more thing to check off a dreary list that had started with getting dressed by Theodore this morning.

He thanked his new bride, and she thanked him in return. It felt strangely formal, and Dain wondered if that were customary, as though husband and wife had just shaken hands over a business transaction. He thought likely not, but there was hardly anyone for him to ask about it. He had no brother any longer, and no one to ask about marital arrangements, and he would learn to live his life without wanting things he could not have.

Dain retired to his own adjoining but separate chambers for sleep—not the most common of arrangements these days, but one that had been very traditional in prior generations. It was the one thing he’d insisted on with Gerrolt when they’d sat down to discuss arrangements. Gerrolt, professional to the last, did not even blink at the request. He’d only asked Dain if he were certain, and Dain had said that he was, and then it was done. 

When he’d informed the Lady Beatrix, she’d lifted an eyebrow but then nodded agreeably.

“A suitable arrangement, my Duke,” she’d said, and then, at his questioning look, “A lady does enjoy her privacy.”

Dain, surprising himself, managed an actual smile at this. “Then you shall have nothing less, my lady,” he said, leaving Beatrix looking well-pleased.

Dain wondered if she suspected about his sickness...but whether she did or not was no matter. He’d been able to perform his duties satisfactorily, and she’d not complained, which was a relief in every respect.

In his own chambers, which he decided that tomorrow would be stripped of the ubiquitous gold leaf and velvet, he slid beneath the covers of the ducal bed for the first time. A chill shivered through him, though the day had been mild and temperate and the bed was well-fitted. 

He closed his eyes, and thought of slow glaciers on an open sea, of crackling ice on a frozen lake. He thought of barren earth sheathed in snow.

He did not think of Tristan, or his father. He did not think of Theodore. 

_If I can do this, I can do anything,_ Dain thought as sleep overtook him. _Anything at all._


	2. Chapter 2

# II.

Dain had never had a real sense of what his father did all day. It turned out that mostly it was sitting. Sitting in tedious council meetings listening to his advisors bicker, and sitting in the cold, uncomfortable throne room hearing plaints and petitions from subjects.

“Can I not simply have my advisors make decisions in my stead?” Dain asked Gerrolt after one particularly interminable session. “I fail to see why my attendance is _personally_ required.”

“It is how it is done, milord,” Gerrolt said, implacable as usual. “And you are—”

“Young, new, vulnerable, and without an heir, yes, yes, I’m fully aware,” Dain snapped. 

Gerrolt inclined his head. “As you say, sire.” If the man weren’t so competent, he’d be infuriating, Dain thought.

Dain did _try_ to take an interest in the machinations of the court, and he spent a few hours here and there reading the diplomatic missives that his advisors kept sending to him, but no matter how he worked at subsuming himself into the persona of the Duke, he could not wrap his head around the intricacies of politics. He missed freedom and the outdoors. 

And so he found himself wandering the grounds on a midsummer afternoon, contemplating how he might disguise himself in such a way that he could escape these blasted grounds for a few hours of peace. He kept his hands folded behind his back and a regal expression frozen onto his face, feigning interest in the grounds as though he gave a damn what the greengrocers and merchants were up to.

While he was letting his eyes drift haughtily over an array of dyed fabrics at a merchant’s stall, he very nearly lost his footing on a bushel of apples that rolled haphazardly into his path. 

Dain stopped, lifting an imperious eyebrow, and then a boy—a young man, actually—leapt into his path, scurrying to collect them all. “I apologize, good sir,” the boy was saying, “I must have overfilled the—excuse me—oh, _blast.”_ He’d managed to collect most of the apples and then overbalanced himself and lost most of them in a fresh spill of fruit. His cheeks were nearly as red as the apples at this point.

Dain smiled in amusement, his first true smile in weeks. “Allow me,” he said, and stooped down to help.

“My lord! You needn’t—”

“No, I needn’t,” Dain agreed, “but I shall. Your name, boy?”

The boy looked up at last from his basket of apples, and Dain froze, feeling as though all of the air had been punched from his lungs. The boy was... _beautiful._ Black hair curled around his temples and the nape of his neck, and he had startling blue eyes, delicate features, and a full mouth. He looked like a heavenly seraphim, descended to Earth.

“Thomas, sir,” he said, flushed and pink. 

“I don’t remember seeing you around the castle before, Thomas,” Dain said, entranced. He could have been ensorcelled, for the gnawing and immediate _need_ in his belly.

“I’ve just traveled here from Morthe, my lord,” the boy—Thomas—said. 

Dain lifted an eyebrow. “Morthe,” he said. “How fares the Solemn Court?”

Thomas looked surprised for a moment. “I—I wouldn’t know, sire, I’m just a serving boy.”

Dain had asked his question mostly out of habit. Gerrolt had told him that when meeting someone from another land, it was well to ask them about their home duchy, as sometimes their answer “could be telling.” Dain could not make heads nor tails out of what such a thing might tell, but he’d got into the habit of doing it anyway. It was something, apparently, that dukes did.

“Can you keep a secret, Thomas?” Dain asked, and was pleased to see the boy’s eyes go wide.

“Sire?” he asked, flushed with color.

Dain pitched his voice lower, bent his head slightly towards Thomas. “I don’t know much about the Solemn Court, either,” he said conspiratorially.

Thomas laughed, high and clear, and a warm bubble expanded in Dain’s chest. “Now, Thomas, what exactly have we got you doing here in Longmont?”

Thomas perked up at this question. “Oh, I’m to apprentice in the kitchens when there’s a spot, but for now I’m helping with the scullery. I don’t _mind_ the scullery work, but it’s the kitchens I’m looking forward to. I’m good at cookery and can handle a knife, and—oh, you didn’t ask that, did you? I’m sorry! I’m blathering. I...I didn’t expect to meet you today. Sir.”

He blushed, and Dain made a low noise in his throat. This boy was a _delight._ “Nor I you, Thomas,” he said. “And yet I think we are well met.”

Thomas fluttered his lovely long lashes and gave Dain a shy, hopeful smile. Dain wanted suddenly nothing more than to press his thumb against the boy’s mouth, to feel the softness of his lips. He folded his hands behind his back to keep them steady.

“Thank you, my lord,” Thomas said. “I—I suppose I should get these to the kitchen?”

“Yes,” Dain said. “I’m sure we’ll meet again soon, Thomas.” The boy nodded, a lock of curls falling into his eyes, and then he turned and hurried off in the direction of the main kitchens. Dain watched him go. He was tall and lithe, nearly as tall as Dain. He’d soon reach his full height, if he hadn’t already. Just on the cusp of manhood.

Dain thought of Brother Theodore’s frowning face and stern disapproval on the day of Dain’s wedding. _There are things that must be put aside,_ he’d said.

But surely the Duke could decide for himself what needed to be put aside and what could be indulged. Surely he deserved some reward for the endless, interminable meetings, for the drudgery of rule, for his continuing efforts to produce an heir.

He thought of Thomas’ lovely, full lips and perfect, pale skin. Yes, he and the boy would meet again soon. He was quite sure of it.

* * *

That night, as Dain moved above his wife for the sixteenth time since their wedding, he thought of sweet blue eyes and raven curls, and he finished so quickly and so vigorously that the Lady Beatrix gasped and blushed. Well, he was happy for her to think it was due to her beauty; Dain had no objection to that. He thanked her as usual and returned to his own bed. He fell asleep to imaginations of young Thomas’ soft, sweet skin, and he dreamed well for the first time in a long while.

* * *

A few days later, on an afternoon blessedly free of meetings, Dain made his way to the courtyard again, telling himself that it was to get fresh air, nothing more and nothing less. (He found that with each passing day as the Duke, it became increasingly easier to lie to himself about all manner of things.)

Dain wound his way through stalls and carts, letting his eyes skim over the people he passed without actually looking at them, ignoring the murmured “milords” and “sires” as he strode past. Until—yes—a flash of black hair and pale skin, on the far side of the keep near to where the stables were.

Dain drifted over in that direction, not in a straight line, not with _intent._ But soon enough he reached his quarry, the boy Thomas, who appeared to be once again struggling with an over-full bushel of apples.

“Did they need those in the stables, Thomas?” Dain inquired, startling Thomas and making him nearly drop the bushel again.

“Sire!” he said, and then, interestingly, his eyes darted away from the stables. “No, sire, I was just—I was on my way to the scullery.”

Dain lifted an eyebrow. The stables were not on the way from the orchards to the scullery. He fixed Thomas with a direct stare. The boy was _trembling_ for some reason, and—oh, Dain suddenly realized, he was intimidated. Afraid. He was afraid of his Duke.

Dain’s breath caught at this realization. Thomas _feared_ him. Perhaps he should have found this distasteful or upsetting, and perhaps the old Dain would have, but the Duke…the Duke didn’t mind at all. The Duke found it rather intriguing, in fact.

“Thomas,” he said in a low voice, “is there something you’d like to tell me?”

The boy’s face went white, and Dain’s heart sped. He felt like a fisherman with a fat trout on his hook, reeling it ever so slowly in. 

“I—” Thomas said, then swallowed hard. “I—a friend, sire. I stopped to say hello to a friend. I know I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry. Please—please don’t send me off, milord. Please.”

Dain felt as though he were floating. He held this boy’s future in the palm of his hand. He wouldn’t send him away—obviously not, he wanted this _angel_ as close to him as he could get him. But he _could,_ and Thomas knew it. Thomas _feared_ it. 

In the time that he’d been Duke, Dain had, of course, had occasion to wield the powers of the office, sentencing men to the stocks, resolving disputes among farmers and the like. But for the most part he let his council lead in these matters. He’d not yet felt the power of seeing a subject flinch in fear from him, of making someone cringe in terror of what he could do.

It was heady, all the more so because it came from pretty, pretty Thomas.

Dain ran his tongue along his upper lip, eyeing the pale, trembling boy before him. Wild images flashed through his mind—punishments he could enact, perhaps even bringing Thomas to his quarters for private correction. He could do it; he was the Duke, and no one would stop him. 

But he _did_ have a wife in the adjoining chamber to his. It would be difficult to keep secret, and notwithstanding that, it would hardly be appropriate. This was certainly one of the things Theodore had told him he must put aside, now that he was Duke. 

He could indulge himself for just a moment, though. Just a moment, no more.

“You won’t do it again, will you, Thomas?” Dain said softly, meeting the boy’s star-blue eyes.

Thomas, given unexpected reprieve, swallowed hard. “No, my lord, no, I—thank you, my lord. I’ll be good from now on, I promise you!” Color rose high in his cheeks.

Dain took a sharp breath; the thought of the boy _being good_ for him was nearly enough to make him change his mind and haul him to his chambers forthwith. But he was the Duke. He would be responsible and correct. In all things. 

“Very good,” he said. Thomas sagged in relief. Dain added on impulse, “Of course I’d not send you away, Thomas. Who would give me my daily entertainment of watching apples roll in every direction?” 

Thomas let out a little laugh, and Dain smiled, pleased. He’d liked wielding power over the boy—had liked it _very much,_ in fact—but found he had no desire for Thomas to live in terror of him. 

“Go on, then,” Dain said. Thomas bobbed his head up and down in a vigorous nod, then turned and practically raced his way toward the kitchens.

Dain watched until he was out of sight. He exhaled deeply, feeling the after-effects of the adrenaline and excitement the encounter had brought. He knew this was trouble and feared it would end badly. 

He almost _—almost—_ wished the boy had never caught his attention.


	3. Chapter 3

# III.

Dain surreptitiously scraped a fingernail down the skin of his wrist, trying to keep himself awake during this interminable strategy meeting. The meetings were held—“for security,” Lord Brucius told him—in a windowless, airless room in the heart of the castle. Brucius was expounding at some length right now about their trade relations with Jost. Something about wheat bushels and a visiting delegation. 

Dain had counted the number of diamonds in the pattern on the wainscoting three times now, and if he scraped at his wrist too much longer he’d leave a mark. He wondered, not for the first time, if it was possible to actually _die_ from boredom. His thoughts drifted to young Thomas, who he’d not seen for several days, since their encounter near the stables. Dain had been very good, very well-behaved, and had kept well away from the boy. Perhaps he would allow himself to go and seek Thomas out later on—only to observe him, see how he was getting on with his duties. There could be little harm in that.

“...letter last week?”

A silence fell, and Dain realized suddenly that Gerrolt, Brucius, and Aron were all staring at him, waiting for a response. Dain replayed the last minute or so of conversation, during which he’d mostly been drifting off. A letter...from the Duke of Jost? Ah, no, a letter _to_ Jost, he had it now.

“Tell Jost that we would be happy to host their delegation in two months’ time, after the harvest is complete,” Dain said. “I’m sure that would satisfy, no?”

Gerrolt and Brucius shot each other a look. Gerrolt drew breath as though to speak, but then Aron interjected, his voice smooth as rolled silk. “My Lord, it’s not quite as simple as that. There are delicate negotiations to be made.” Dain frowned; he hated this sort of finicky detail and was not very good at it. It’s why he _had_ advisors, so that _they_ could manage these things. 

Aron went on, “But I would be happy to draft a missive for you to review, if you’d like?”

Dain breathed a sigh of relief. Gerrolt and Brucius gave each other another meaningful look; Dain was not quite sure what that was about; some jealousy, perhaps? Had one of _them_ wanted to write the message? He’d no idea and was exhausted even thinking about it. Court intrigue eluded him. 

“Thank you, Aron,” he said. Aron inclined his head deferentially, giving Dain a small, conspiratorial smile.

Dain managed a thin smile in return. Aron made him uneasy sometimes. He was not much older than Dain himself, well-spoken and good-looking, popular with the ladies of the court. And he had a talent for diplomatic communications, which is why Dain often turned to him when he needed a letter to be composed. But...he had a certain way of smiling at Dain that seemed false, like a wolf feigning sleep but licking its lips when no one was watching. 

He’d thought of asking Gerrolt about it, but Gerrolt was a staid old bulwark of the court. He’d have just as much luck discussing his problems with the castle turret. And it was nothing, anyway. Just Dain being insecure and paranoid. He had to shake it off and stop seeing shadows lurking where there were none.

Dain shook his head. “If that’s all, then?” he said, rising from his place at the table.

Gerrolt cleared his throat. “Sire, there are a few additional matters—”

He’d been trapped in this poorly-lit, musty room for an hour and a half already. Dain could not bear it any longer. “Handle it for me, Gerrolt,” he said. “You have my trust.”

Brucius frowned, but Gerrolt pursed his lips and nodded, and for Dain, that was good enough. He had plans to keep.

* * *

Dain _had_ behaved himself. He hadn’t spoken to the boy since their last encounter near the stables, hadn’t sought him out in the keep or the kitchens. He’d drawn a line for himself that he’d firmly enforced; he wouldn’t actually _engage_ with the boy, but he could fantasize. He could imagine all he liked. No one had to know what happened in the privacy of his fevered mind. 

And so imagine he did; his daydreams had been overtaken by thoughts of Thomas’ delicate features and slim body. 

And _watching_ Thomas was barely different from thinking about him. It wasn’t talking, wasn’t touching. It was still on the right side of the line. Harmless.

 _Harmless,_ Dain told himself, as he made his way to the steep, winding staircase leading to the western solarium. _Completely harmless._

The western solarium was a small room tucked away in one of the castle towers, set aside for the lady of the castle to work on her embroidery and calligraphy. But the Lady Beatrix preferred to pursue those activities in the company of her ladies-in-waiting, within her own quarters, and so the solarium went mostly unused. Dain had long taken advantage of this knowledge to find privacy for himself on days when the noise and bustle of the castle pounded on his mind too much. The solarium was quiet and secluded, lined with windows that let in plenty of fresh air and sunlight.

The windows _also_ afforded a birds’-eye view of the keep below.

Today, as always, the solarium was empty other than for a spinning wheel and a collection of overly-ornate furniture with the ever-present gold trim. Dain went to one of the narrow windows and looked down onto the castle grounds, watching the movement of his subjects in the keep.

His subjects. Dain snorted quietly to himself. Perhaps God had a sense of humor, because Dain could see this as nothing other than a cruel, cosmic joke. He wasn’t made to have subjects, to hold the mantle of rule. The best he could do was to playact, saying and doing the things he remembered watching his father do. It was farcical.

Dain could barely remember the person he’d once been; his true self was buried deep beneath the weight of responsibility and rule. But he didn’t feel like the Duke, either. He didn’t understand half of what his advisors talked about, he didn’t write his own letters, and he couldn’t even bed his own wife without imagining one of his servant boys beneath him instead. 

His obsession with Thomas was rapidly spiraling out of control. He’d been spending more and more time wandering about the keep, hoping for a glimpse of the boy. It was unseemly, and he knew that. It was only a matter of time before someone noticed his behavior and asked him to account for it. But it was also the only thing in his interminable days that he looked forward to, and he was loath to give it up.

Dain peered down into the keep. And there, as though thinking of him had summoned him, he spotted Thomas. He carried crates of lettuce back and forth, lifting each from the farmer’s cart near the keep entrance, then crossing the length of the yard to deposit the crate in a stack near the kitchen. It was a warm day, and his neck and shoulders glistened with sweat. Without Dain there to unnerve him, his movements were graceful, lithe, like a dancer’s. Back and forth, back and forth, working hard in the sun. The muscles of his back flexed visibly beneath his loose jerkin. Dain imagined what the boy might look like with his jerkin off completely, half-naked as he worked. 

Heat suffused Dain’s body, and thick tendrils of pleasure spiraled lazily through his gut. He imagined stroking Thomas’ raven-black hair, tugging at it. He imagined Thomas, bare-chested, pressed up against him. He imagined his hand fisted through Thomas’s hair, holding him in place.

“Thomas,” he breathed aloud. 

The solarium was secluded and empty. No one knew he was there; no one would come to find him. No one standing below could see him. He positioned himself so that he had an unobstructed view of Thomas below. And then, fearless with desire, he loosened his breeches and slipped a hand inside to grip his fattening cock. Thomas, below, arched his back to stretch. 

Dain pictured him arching his back in his bed, writhing like a cat while Dain touched and stroked him. What noises might Thomas make, he wondered; would he bite back his little cries, afraid to make a sound? Or would he moan and beg? 

He braced himself on the wall with one hand and worked at his stiff, leaking cock with the other, his fingers slick with his own fluid, his thumb sliding back and forth over the sensitive crown. Yes, perhaps Thomas would beg. Perhaps Dain would _make_ Thomas beg. _Please, my lord,_ he’d cry, _please let me,_ and Dain would tell him to ask more sweetly, and Thomas’s pretty eyes would well with tears as he begged and begged and— 

Dain bit down onto his own hand to stifle his cry as his hips jerked forward, spilling his release in long, thick jets. After, he rested his head against the cool stone, regaining his breath and waiting for his heart to slow its frantic pounding.

With shaking hands, he laced himself back into his breeches, and then he leaned bonelessly against the wall, euphoric with relief. _He doesn’t know,_ he told himself. _It doesn’t count if he doesn’t know._

But he _could_ know. Dain was usually quite good at stopping his mind from wandering down dangerous paths...but right now, that gate hung open and unattended. Thomas _could_ know. Dain was the Duke, and he could have Thomas if he wanted.

 _I haven’t crossed the line,_ he told himself. He watched Thomas below, working and perspiring in the sun. His subject. His _servant._

 _I can just watch,_ he told himself. _Watching is enough._

Dain had once overheard his father telling Tristan that when you are a ruler, your words have the force of law, and that sometimes speaking things can make them real.

 _Watching is enough,_ he thought, willing it to be true.

_Watching is enough._


	4. Chapter 4

# IV.

“Gerrolt,” Dain said, “I simply fail to see why my attendance is required at _every_ meeting. I know perfectly well that my father didn’t attend every meeting of the council.”

They sat in Dain’s quarters, newly remodeled in maroon silks edged with silver, not a hint of gold trim anywhere. Dain faced Gerrolt across the polished surface of Dain’s oak writing table. He straightened his posture and folded his hands in front of him on the table in what he hoped was an imposing fashion. 

Gerrolt leaned back in his chair, ankle crossed over his knee, narrowing his grey eyes at Dain. Dain fought the urge to flinch. He _was_ the Duke, he reminded himself. 

“He attended most,” Gerrolt finally said in his gravelly voice, “and he’d been to enough that we knew what he’d say in the ones he didn’t.”

Dain sighed, slumping into his chair and pinching his nose with exasperation. “Then just do what _he’d_ have done, if you’re so familiar with him!” he said.

Gerrolt’s flinty expression softened a little. “Young Dain,” he said, and Dain felt a pang in his chest; Gerrolt had called him that since he was a small boy. It reminded him of the time before things had all gone so terribly wrong. “You are a new Duke, and new leaders are vulnerable. Some will take advantage to press their claim. It is in your interest to be _present,_ to show that you are strong and capable.”

Dain’s eyes shifted away from Gerrolt. “Am I?” he muttered. 

Gerrolt grunted, rising from his seat. He stumped over to where Dain sat and rested a hand on Dain’s shoulder, heavy and reassuring. “You are stronger than you think,” he said, “and you have _always_ been capable, my boy. You’ll be all right.”

Dain wondered if Gerrolt believed what he’d just said. Personally, he thought it was a load of tripe, but it was pleasant of his father’s advisor to make the effort. Dain managed a faint smile. “I’ll be at the meetings,” he conceded. Gerrolt bowed his head.

“As you say, my lord,” he said. “I’ll take my leave now; I’m sure you’re ready to spend some time with the Lady Beatrix.” The words were loaded; the entire dukedom waited for news of an heir.

Dain sighed wearily. “Yes, Gerrolt,” he said. “Of course.”

* * *

In fact, Dain spent very little time with Beatrix. He was with her only for their brief nightly encounters in bed, and Dain never varied from the routine. At nine bells, he entered her quarters, disrobed, and joined her beneath the bedclothes. He performed his duties with eyes closed, kissed her on the forehead, then retired to his own chambers. 

They dined together from time to time, and had occasional public appearances together, but other than that they lived separate lives, which suited Dain perfectly and seemed to be acceptable to Beatrix as well. 

Beatrix had turned out to not be a terribly bad match; rather a good one, in fact, Dain could admit. She was easy-going and seemed perfectly all right with the fact that her husband evinced no sort of attraction to her whatsoever. She _had_ to have noticed, Dain thought, but she said nothing and seemed not to be bothered by it. 

Well, perhaps she wasn’t attracted to him, either. Entirely possible, and wouldn’t _that_ be a great joke?

* * *

The chapel bells rang three o’ clock in the distance, and Dain considered. It was early in the afternoon. Council meetings were finished for the day. He _could_ look over paperwork, read through the strategies and diplomatic missives that Gerrolt had left for him. Or...he could go to find Thomas.

Dain warred with himself for no more than a few seconds before deciding to make his way to the castle gardens. It had never really been in question.

By now, Dain knew Thomas’ daily routine practically to the minute. He knew that at three o’clock, Thomas would be working in the vegetable garden, likely hoeing weeds in the pea patch.

Just as the keep was visible from the western solarium, the gardens were visible from the eastern. Dain had already spent several long afternoons watching Thomas from that vantage point, lazily stroking his cock and losing himself to ever-more depraved fantasies of the angelic mouth and lithe muscles of the boy working below. 

The first time, he’d been in an agony of nerves, listening carefully for any sign of footsteps approaching, and after he finished, he promised himself he’d never do it again. But two days passed, and he felt the pull of that long, winding staircase, leading to a private room where he could indulge himself as much as he liked. After a week, he stopped pretending he wouldn’t do it anymore, and after two weeks, he had his trousers open and loose practically before letting the door close behind him.

Dain _could_ go to the solarium today. The boy would be in the garden until the dinner bell, affording him the opportunity to watch Thomas for hours, if he liked. As well, on hot days like this, Thomas wore only his sleeveless tunic, and Dain could catch glimpses of his bare chest and shoulders, the muscles flexing as he worked. 

But it had been several days since Dain allowed himself to speak with Thomas, and while watching Thomas from a distance was pleasurable, it did not quite sate his need. He wanted to hear Thomas’s voice, to see Thomas blush and laugh. And especially, he wanted Thomas to see _him._

Dain knew his obsession was deepening, but he lacked the desire to stop himself. He was so far down the path that the gate was no longer even visible behind him. 

Yes, his decision was made. Today he would forego the solarium. He’d have a short chat with Thomas, nothing more. Nothing untoward. Nothing inappropriate. His depravities would stay locked deep inside his mind, and Thomas would see him as nothing more than the friendly Duke, stopping by to say hello. 

Watching was no longer enough, but perhaps this would be.

* * *

The castle gardens ran for acres, with long rows of lettuce, watercress, and root vegetables, plots of onions and leeks, and staked broad and long beans. Dain made his way down from the southern walls along the cleared path toward the pea plants, now thickly covering their trellises as the midsummer heat approached. Thomas was the only servant in this part of the gardens today; most of the other servants had been tasked with turning over earth for the beetroot field or harvesting the last of the asparagus.

That suited Dain perfectly well. He spotted the top of Thomas’ head a few rows back from the garden entrance, the sun glinting off his black hair. He moved quietly and carefully, so as to get a glimpse of the boy before being spotted himself. He paused, half-obscured behind a trellis, when Thomas came into view.

Dain took in a sharp breath. Thomas was like a young god, his thin sheen of sweat giving him an ethereal glow. He wore his sleeveless tunic, just as Dain had hoped, giving tantalizing glimpses of his skin as he worked and moved.

Dain watched for several minutes, drinking his fill of Thomas’s thoughtless beauty. Eventually, his cock began to thicken. He was not in the privacy of the solarium, and so he subtly adjusted his trousers and shook off the urge to stroke himself. When he had control of himself, he moved from behind his hiding place.

“Lordship!” Thomas said, as he saw Dain approaching. His face lit with delight, which pleased Dain. “What brings you to our humble garden patch?”

Dain’s mouth lifted in a half-smile. Thomas spoke to him without the sort of oily obsequity he got from most of his subjects. Talking to him was the closest Dain ever felt to being a real person these days. 

“Well, as the Duke, one must ensure that all of one’s subjects are growing and thriving,” Dain said. “Including the lowliest of pea plants.”

Thomas gestured above him at the trellis overhead. “Hardly lowly, my lord,” he said with a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Taller than even you.”

Dain laughed. “Even so, Thomas,” he said.

Thomas shyly smiled. “So what then say you, my lord, of your subjects today?” 

Dain felt wolfish, and it made him bold.

“I say that they are looking quite fine in the sun. _Quite_ fine.” He met Thomas’s eyes and held his gaze deliberately. The boy’s cheeks flushed a delicate pink and his lips parted slightly, but he did not look away. 

Dain moved closer, close enough to smell the fresh, clean sweat of the boy. He reached for a loose curl framing Thomas’ face, pushed it back behind his ear, letting his knuckles trace along Thomas’ cheekbone. “There, that’s better,” he murmured. 

Thomas, wide-eyed, leaned his head ever, ever so subtly toward Dain’s hand. 

Distantly, Dain was aware that he was trampling all over the line he’d drawn for himself, and couldn’t bring himself to care even a little bit. With fingers resting gently on Thomas’ jawline, he said, “I should stop bothering you at your work, Thomas.”

Thomas lowered his lashes. “You’re no bother, sire,” he said, and _oh,_ Dain wanted to kiss him right there among the pea plants, wanted to _touch,_ wanted to _possess._

He took a deep, calming breath. It would not do to lose control of himself in full view of the castle—no matter how sorely tempted he might be, and by the _Lord,_ this boy was tempting him.

“Best get back to work, Thomas,” Dain murmured, pressing his thumb gently against the boy’s throat, feeling his fast-beating pulse.

“As you say,” Thomas breathed. 

Dain’s heart pounded in his ears. He barely remembered his retreat from the garden back to the eastern solarium, couldn’t have said who he passed by or even what route he took. The tower stairs seemed interminable, and by the time he reached the top, he was in such a state that he didn’t even bother to bar the door. 

He went to the window and looked down at angelic Thomas in the garden. His fingertips still thrummed with Thomas’s heartbeat, strong and fast. Dain took his cock in hand. _Sire,_ Thomas had said, and _my lord,_ and he’d leaned into Dain’s touch, and Lord, the _smell_ of him, so clean and fresh— 

When Dain came, it was so powerful his ears rang and his vision went black. “Thomas,” he gasped. “Oh, _Thomas.”_

* * *

When Dain entered the Lady Beatrix’ chambers that evening at the stroke of nine, the lady was not between the sheets of their marital bed as usual. She sat at her dressing table, with her gown on and her hair pinned up. 

She was smiling.

“My lord Duke,” she said, “I am with child.”


	5. Chapter 5

# V.

Relief blossomed inside Dain like a flower opening to the sun. “You are positive?” he asked. “The midwives—?”

Beatrix nodded with a small, secretive smile. “Two months gone,” she said, which meant—Dain did a quick calculation—she must have caught pregnant in nearly the first week of their marriage. “The midwives assure me.”

“That’s—that’s well, then,” Dain managed, the room tilting around him. He felt behind himself for a chair and dropped into it, feeling rather like a gaping fish.

Beatrix laughed, and Dain thought suddenly that he might have been quite taken with her, were it not for his unfortunate proclivities. Her eyes were bright, and her mouth was kind. “Dain,” she said, and Dain lifted his eyebrows in surprise to hear her use his given name. “Let us for once be honest with each other. I know you have no real love for me.”

“I—” Dain began, but Beatrix held up a hand to stop him, a smile still playing about her mouth.

“It is all right,” she said. “It was an arranged marriage, and I…” She paused, looking for the words. “I am...not to your preference, I think.”

Dain’s head spun. _She knew._ He thought he’d been careful; he thought he’d kept this secret from everyone. 

“It’s hard to miss when one shares a bed,” she said. “My feelings are not hurt; do not worry. But I think you will not be terribly upset if I am to spend my confinement with my mother and sister in my home province?”

“You wish to travel back to Gretna?” he asked, feeling as though the world around him was tumbling gently, end-over-end. 

“Until the child is born, yes,” she said, folding her hands into her lap. “A woman wishes to be with her mother at these times.”

“Of course,” Dain said faintly, and Beatrix smiled, looking quietly pleased. “Beatrix,” he went on, “I—I do not dislike you.” He winced; that hadn’t come out as he’d intended. “That is to say, I find you agreeable. More than I believe I deserve. And just because you—because I—” 

He could not say it. Even though she already knew, he couldn’t say it out loud. Couldn’t make it real, couldn’t give it life. But Beatrix saw his distress and took pity on him.

“I understand, my lord,” she said, and Dain felt at once grateful and undeserving of this wife who tolerated his aberrations and unfitness for rule.

“Well,” he said, “it does not mean I do not enjoy your company. Yet you are correct that I have no great objection to your extended absence, if it means you can bear your confinement in comfort.”

Beatrix nodded, glowing with satisfaction. And, Dain thought suddenly, glowing with child. _His_ child. His _heir._

He would have an heir. 

Well, the world was indeed filled with wonders.

“I will take my leave of you, my lady,” Dain said, rising and taking her hand to press a dry kiss onto it. “When you depart, take whatever servants you desire, and whatever you need from the castle to make your journey pleasant and comfortable.”

“Thank you, Dain,” she said, and half-bowed.

Dain returned to his own quarters, feeling half-drunk and wondering if he were soon to wake from a dream. As he laid down to bed, he contemplated the next several months, during which he would be alone in the ducal quarters—alone, with no one near enough to see or hear anything that happened in his chambers. 

One word resounded over and over again in his fevered mind:

_Thomas. Thomas, Thomas, Thomas._

* * *

The next day, Dain told his council the news. Gerrolt nodded in approval, and Brucius, irritatingly, breathed a noisy sigh of relief. 

“Where is Lord Aron?” Dain asked, frowning. He’d hoped to have Aron write the official announcement. 

Gerrolt snorted. “I’m not that lad’s keeper,” he said. “Gallivanting off to visit friends again, I expect.” 

Brucius shot Gerrolt a sideways glance. “Aron had business in Morthe, I believe, my lord.”

Dain’s frown deepened. He leaned forward. “Morthe? He has friends at the Solemn Court? Why was I not informed of his departure?”

“Begging your pardon, my lord,” Brucius said, picking at a fingernail, “but you’ve not seemed interested in the comings and goings of the court. Aron travels a lot. Your father used to ask for regular reports on it, but since you took over…well.” Brucius lifted a shoulder in a half-shrug.

Dain pressed his lips together tightly. Brucius never missed an opportunity to point out Dain’s shortcomings in comparison to his father. “Well, when he _returns,”_ Dain said, “see to it that he reports to me. I _am_ interested in the comings and goings of the court, particularly when I have need of one of my councilors and they’ve gone bloody walkabout in bloody _Morthe,”_ he said. “We don’t even have diplomatic relations with Morthe!”

Brucius cleared his throat. “Well, their law—”

“I know their bloody law, Brucius! I’m not _actually_ an idiot!” Morthe was ruled by the Solemn Court, a triumvirate about whom little was known outside Morthe, other than that they were very old, and that during their rule no one had ever breached their borders. Dain remembered his father once saying that the best spymasters came from Morthe, if you could manage to find one. Their diplomatic rules were byzantine, and one of the better-known ones was that they would allow no diplomatic mission from any land whose ruler had held power for less than a year. Dain knew the rule well. A _child_ would have known the rule well.

Brucius rolled his eyes at Gerrolt, and a sudden wave of anger swept through Dain, carrying him to his feet. He slammed his fist onto the table so hard it knocked a sheaf of parchment onto the floor. “You know I can _see_ the faces you’re pulling, yes?” he shouted. “I will _not have this insubordination!_ I may not be my father, but the last I checked, I am still the Duke of Longmont!” 

Gerrolt’s eyebrows lifted in concern, and Brucius twisted his mouth to somehow manage to look both outraged and disapproving. _Wonderful,_ Dain thought, _I suppose blowing up at his advisors isn’t something my father would have done, either. Well, add it to the bloody list._

He stood, taking in a deep, cleansing breath. “Lady Beatrix,” he said, “tells me that it’s customary to wait until the fourth month to announce the infant. So we will wait until Aron gets back from his little excursion and announce at that time.”

Brucius squinted at Dain. “You could always write it yourself, my lord. Your father—”

Dain had a satisfying vision of punching Brucius in the jaw. It would certainly not help the situation, and he’d probably break his hand, but it would be _so satisfying._ “We are finished here,” he snapped instead. “No, save it,” he said as Brucius opened his mouth again. “I said we are _finished._ ”

“Dain—” Gerrolt said, but Dain ignored him, wheeling and stalking out of the council chamber without another word.

Blood pounded in his veins and his skin was tight and hot. His head throbbed. He was tired, so _tired,_ of feeling incompetent and childish. He knew _perfectly bloody well_ he wasn’t his father. His father had been the Duke, respected by all and feared by most. And what was Dain? Wearing the robes and the signet like a child playing dress-up, that’s what he was.

He strode through the courtyard with no destination in mind, wanting only to get free of the castle, wanting to escape. _As though escape were a thing that I could even do,_ he thought bitterly.

“ _Fuck,”_ he snarled under his breath, sending an alarmed courtier scurrying in the opposite direction. _Yes, run,_ he thought. _Run all the way to some other court with a_ competent _Duke._

Dain finally slowed when he approached the outer wall. He took stock of his surroundings and realized that he was quite near to the stables. The stables, where Thomas would be at this hour. 

_What could it hurt,_ he reasoned. It might calm his blood to look in on Thomas for a while. Yes; now that the thought had occurred, it seemed very agreeable. He’d watch his boy for a time, see him rubbing down the horses and stacking bales of hay, and it would settle his mind. He felt better already for just having thought of it.

Dain approached the stables from the western side, careful to remain unobserved. It was the best vantage point from which to watch Thomas; there were no horses stabled at this end, and therefore no stable boys or groomsmen to spot him lurking in the shadows. (Though Dain had rehearsed an explanation, just in case; he liked to observe all areas of his castle from top to bottom, he’d say, to make sure that all was in order and that work was being done as it should.)

Dain had been in place for only a few minutes when he heard Thomas’ voice, which was unusual; there should have been no one else here in the stables for him to talk to. Another stable boy, perhaps? Or perhaps the stablemaster, here to give instruction.

Thomas laughed, low and giddy. Unease sat low in Dain’s belly. He’d never heard Thomas laugh that way. It sounded...conspiratorial. And then another voice, a male voice, speaking low in return. 

Thomas was alone in the stables with another man. Another man who made him laugh. Dain _burned_ with the need to know who it was. He went perfectly still, straining to hear.

“...find us?” the other man said.

And then Thomas, “no, no one is here.”

Bile rose in Dain’s throat, and his heart pounded so hard that he thought it might burst. The voices grew clearer and louder as the pair approached the end of the stables where Dain hid.

Thomas again, “you see? We’re alone. I promised you, didn’t I?”

A low laugh from the other. “You did, and you promised other things as well, as I recall.”

Thomas giggled _—giggled—_ and there was silence for several moments. Dain thought of the things he and Theodore had done in these very stables. Heavy dread pressed on him like a thick, stifling blanket. He hated this, and yet he could not bring himself to leave. It was as though he were paralyzed, stuck fast in the shadows, able to do nothing but listen.

And then, in ghastly confirmation of his suspicions, the silence was punctuated with a breathy moan. It was Thomas, _Thomas_ who moaned in pleasure.

 _No,_ Dain thought, the earth falling from beneath his feet.

He was in agony with the need to see, but he trembled so violently that he did not dare to move. Finally, when he had managed some control over his faculties again, he crept softly, carefully, still hidden in shadow, until his vantage point allowed him a glimpse of the two boys. 

What he saw struck him like a lance through the heart. Thomas, _his Thomas,_ with his arms around another boy of about his same age, their mouths on each other, and the other boy’s hands sliding inside Thomas’ trousers.

 _How,_ Dain thought, _how could you want_ him? This other boy—whose name he _would_ discover—was not as tall as Dain, was stocky where Dain was slender. His hair was brown, while Dain had the characteristic sandy-blonde hair of the Longmont line. His nose was pug; Dain’s was aquiline. Dain did not typically indulge in vanity, but he was quite sure that he had more to offer than the boy embracing Thomas in front of him. _Quite_ sure.

“Spencer,” Thomas gasped. _Spencer, then,_ Dain thought, fixing it in memory like a brand.

“You like that?” Spencer murmured into Thomas’ ear. Thomas very clearly did like it, from the way he was slumped against Spencer’s body, his hips rocking back and forth while Spencer’s hand worked inside his trousers. Thomas’ lips were red and swollen, pressed to Spencer’s neck, and Thomas began to make rhythmic noises, _oh, oh, oh._

“Yes, that’s it,” Spencer encouraged, “that’s just it. Come on, Thomas.” Thomas gripped Spencer’s shoulders tightly and with a long, low moan, he thrust up against Spencer’s thigh, trembling in the throes of pleasure. Dain’s mind spun, overwhelmed by the hatred and arousal warring within him. He wanted _—needed—_ to hear Thomas’s breathy moans, but he needed to hear those moans for _him,_ for Thomas’s _Duke_. Not for this puling boy, this _Spencer._

Thomas lifted his head from Spencer’s shoulder. The light caught his eyes and made them shine like sapphires in the shadowy darkness. “Shall I?” he said, sounding sleepy and satisfied. 

Spencer shook his head. “I’ve been gone too long already,” he said. “Later, though?”

Thomas nodded. “Later,” he said, with a secretive little smile.

 _No,_ Dain thought. _Not later. Not ever._ The thought of someone else touching Thomas was intolerable; he could not, _would not,_ allow it. He’d send Spencer away immediately, that was without question. But then what? How could he ensure that no other would have Thomas? He could hardly follow the boy around all day and night.

Although…an idea formed in Dain’s mind, so good that he shivered with the perfection of it. Perhaps there was a way to make sure that Thomas was protected from all others. A way to keep Thomas for himself.

Dain needed to speak to the castle steward. He’d do that first thing, and then he’d have a few other preparations to make, but it could all be accomplished that very day, before Spencer had a chance to return to Dain’s boy.

Dain knew this was sheer, unchecked obsession. _Tristan would tell you that you’re behaving like a fool,_ a small voice said inside his mind. _He’d tell you to snap out of it._

But Tristan was gone. And all Dain had was a miserable title, a duchy he was no good at ruling, and Thomas. Beautiful, sweet Thomas.

No, he had decided. Whether madness or not, before the sun set that night, Thomas would be his.


	6. Chapter 6

# VI.

The castle steward looked as though he had bitten into a lemon. “Sire, there’s several other lads here at the castle who’d be better suited. Let me give you one who’s at least had _some_ training in being a manservant!”

Dain lifted a cold brow, letting the persona of the Duke take over. “Surely we might have the manservant of our choice, Castor? Is there some problem?”

Castor swallowed. He was half a head shorter than Dain, stout and squat, like a barrel with fat legs. “Sire... if I’m honest, it’s—well—” He pursed his lips together, stricken.

“Spit it out, man,” Dain said, curious now at what the issue was.

“It’s Mother Gladwin,” Castor said in a rush. Dain frowned; what did the head cook have to do with this? Castor went on, “She’ll kill me, sire. She ain’t stopped talking about that boy and what a marvel ‘e is with a knife.”

Dain blinked. “He’s what?”

Castor nodded enthusiastically, warming to his subject. “Says the carving takes half the time it used to. Says ‘e’s an artist with a blade, sire. She’s already been tryin’ to get him out of his stable and gardening duties so ‘e can be in the kitchen full-time.”

“An...artist with a blade.” Dain thought of shy, pretty Thomas with a dagger in his hands. It was...strangely compelling. But he put that thought aside for later; there were negotiations to be made.

“That’s what she says, sire. And I’ll tell you, between you and me…” Castor’s voice dropped to a hush. “She ain’t wrong. Boy has a natural talent for the work. I’ve _seen_ it.”

“Mm,” Dain said. “Nevertheless, I’ll want him moved into the servant’s quarters adjoining my own by nightfall. I’ll speak to Mother Gladwin,” he said, forestalling Castor’s flutter of dismay. “Just make sure it happens.”

Castor, knowing when he was beaten, nodded his head. “As you say, sire.”

* * *

The conversation with the head cook was short but memorable. Dain ended up promising three new servants to take the place of Thomas, which barely mollified the woman. Gerrolt had told him once that it always paid to be on the good side of two people: the quartermaster, and the cook. Dain could only hope he hadn’t just made an enemy. From the gleam in her gimlet eye, though, he thought she’d come away with the better end of the deal.

By the time he returned to his own quarters, it was dusk, with gloom gathering in the corners of the corridors. And when he entered his chambers, Thomas sat waiting in Dain’s chair.

He rose to stand, tall and still, watching Dain from behind those long-lashed, star-bright eyes. Dain’s heart trip-hammered in his chest and his breath caught. He couldn’t quite believe that the boy—that _Thomas—_ was here. _Waiting_ for him. 

“My lord,” Thomas said, soft and quiet. “I admit I didn’t expect this.”

Dain swallowed, collected his thoughts. “I suppose you wouldn’t have,” he said. “It was...somewhat of a flight of fancy, if I’m to be honest with you.”

Thomas absorbed this, saying nothing. He was in Dain’s bedchamber; he was at Dain’s bidding. Prickles of heat ran down Dain’s spine, his arms, his legs. He hadn’t thought about what he’d do once he had Thomas here. His thoughts had been consumed only with getting him here, with securing him and keeping him away from all others. And now he was here, the object of his dreams, his fantasies, his desires. 

_There are certain things that must be put aside, my lord._ Theodore’s voice rang sharp and clear in his mind. 

But Theodore was not here. And Thomas was.

“Do you know what a manservant does, Thomas?” Dain asked, thinking that perhaps reviewing his new duties would be a good starting point. A manservant would run Dain’s baths, he’d help Dain to dress and undress, he’d run errands at his behest, he’d bring food and drink, he’d start the fire. All things Dain could do, and had done, for himself, but it was traditional for a duke to have a manservant for these duties. Dain had just never seen the need to bother with it until now.

Thomas nodded. “I do, sire,” he said, in the same quiet voice as before.

“Good,” Dain said, and then paused. The way the boy was looking at him...he was _studying_ Dain. Dain narrowed his eyes; Thomas seemed somehow sharper than before, as though a glamour had fallen away from him.

“Are you truly surprised to be here, Thomas?” Dain asked, because Thomas didn’t look surprised, not in the slightest.

“Yes,” Thomas said. “I’d thought you might have me sent from the castle.”

Dain’s eyebrows lifted. “Whyever would you—”

“Because you saw me,” Thomas said. 

Dain froze. The entire earth seemed to stop turning for a moment; his mind went completely blank and his tongue was paralyzed. 

“You saw me with Spencer,” Thomas said, in a calm, quiet tone that was entirely at odds with the earthshaking words he was speaking. “I know you did.”

Dain took an involuntary step backwards, as though Thomas were a hissing serpent reared up in his path. He thought he’d been careful; he thought no one had seen or noticed. He'd thought Thomas would be none the wiser to his darker intentions. But Thomas _knew._ Something dark and slippery uncoiled deep within Dain.

“I’m not sending you away,” Dain said.

Thomas nodded. “Are you sending Spencer away?” he asked.

“Yes,” Dain said, regaining some of his equilibrium. “Does that bother you?”

Something flashed behind Thomas’ eyes for a moment. “Would it matter?” 

“Probably not,” Dain said. “But I would know your feelings.”

“It bothers me a little,” Thomas said. “Spencer is sweet.”

Yes, Dain thought, he’d seen for himself how _sweet_ Spencer was. “You won’t see him again,” Dain said acidly.

In the low light of early evening, Thomas was outlined by shadow, his face unreadable. “What do you want from me, my lord?” he asked. 

_Everything,_ Dain thought. _Everything._

But here, in this moment, presented with everything he desired, he found himself unable to reach out and take it. He heard Theodore’s voice, saw the faces of his wife, his father, his brother. His hands trembled, and he clasped them behind his back to stop himself from reaching for Thomas.

“I want you to ready my bath,” he said. “Nothing more for now, Thomas.”

Thomas tilted his head questioningly, then gave a small nod. “As you say, sire,” Thomas said, and went to go and heat water for the bath.

It would take him half an hour or more to make the preparations. Dain, shaky and at odds with himself, sat at his writing desk and let his head fall onto his hands. He breathed deeply for a few moments, trying to settle himself. He wondered if this is what it felt like to lose one’s mind.

Dain lit a lamp to supplement the dying light of the sun, and he opened a drawer to retrieve parchment and quill. With quick, short strokes, he outlined a sketch of Thomas’ face, then began to fill in the details. As he sank into his work, his heart ceased its pounding and his breathing returned to normal. He had not allowed himself time to draw since before the accident and found he had missed it.

Only Tristan had known of his drawings and sketches. Most of his drawings had been _of_ Tristan, in fact, although there were a few of other courtiers and several of birds, foxes, and other woodland creatures he’d seen while out wandering. Tristan had encouraged it, always exclaiming over every little detail. Dain sometimes wrote stories to go along with the drawings, and Tristan loved those as well. All of it was locked away in his writing desk. He’d kept everything, but hadn’t looked at it once since becoming duke. It, like late-night fumblings in the stables, had seemed something that should be put aside with the responsibility of rule.

Dain was nearly finished with the sketch when Thomas returned to inform him that the bath was ready. He hurriedly snuffed the light and put the parchment away before Thomas could catch a glimpse of it.

“Thank you, Thomas,” he said, and followed the boy into the bathing chamber. It was a small, stone room adjacent to the ducal quarters, and it held a wooden tub, a low bench, and a hearth at which water could be heated. The tub was filled two-thirds full with steaming water, and a small stack of linen cloths was piled at one end of the bench.

He could send Thomas away now. He _should_ send Thomas away now. But the boy was here, and this _was_ one of the duties of a manservant. It would hardly be unseemly to have him assist with Dain’s undressing and bath. 

Dain no longer wondered whether he was crossing the line. There was no line anymore, no barrier stopping him from taking whatever he wanted.

“I should like you to assist me with my clothing,” Dain said. 

Thomas glanced quickly at Dain, but his face otherwise revealed nothing. “As you say, sire,” he said.

Dain had not required assistance with his dressing since he was a child; in fact, the last person who had done it for him was Theodore, on the day of his wedding. There was an unsettling intimacy about it that he did not typically care for.

Now, though...Thomas knelt before Dain and unlaced his boots, one after the other. The feel of Thomas’s long, delicate fingers, even through layers of thick leather, sent a twist of excitement through Dain. 

Thomas tapped Dain’s left foot and Dain raised it to let Thomas tug it off, repeating on the other side. Boots taken care of, Thomas rose gracefully to his feet to unbutton Dain’s tunic. He was focused and intent, his face mere inches from Dain’s so that Dain could feel Thomas’s regular, even breaths. When he finished, Thomas pulled Dain’s tunic over his head, leaving Dain in just his shift and his breeches.

Thomas paused, looked up questioningly. “Shall I continue?” he asked. 

“Please,” Dain said softly. 

“As you say,” Thomas said, his voice catching a little. He pushed Dain’s shift up, sliding his hands against the flat planes of Dain’s stomach. Thomas’s hands were warm, and his touch was firm. Dain let out a sharp breath, gooseflesh rising on his exposed skin.

“Sire?” Thomas asked, “your arms?” 

Dain nodded, not trusting himself to speak without his voice breaking. He lifted his arms, and Thomas lifted the shift over his head, leaving him bare from the waist up.

Dain had never been seen nor touched by a man beneath his clothing. His heart hammered in his chest, and with an appalling thrill, he realized that his cock was thickening and there was nothing he could do to hide it.

 _Thomas will see. Thomas will know._ The thought inflamed him further. He _wanted_ Thomas to see, wanted him to know what he did to Dain.

Thomas took a small step closer to Dain so that he could tug at the laces of his breeches, his hands perilously close to Dain’s stiffening length. Then, in a single graceful motion, he dropped to his knees before Dain. With gentle hands, he slid the breeches down his hips. Dain stepped out of them, now completely bare before Thomas. He was near to fully hard, his cock thick and heavy between his legs. 

On his knees before him, Thomas looked up and met Dain’s eyes. “Shall I bathe you now, sire?” he asked. He was so close that Dain could feel his exhalations on the sensitive skin of his cock. It was shockingly, desperately intimate. Thomas was close enough to touch those pretty lips to the head of his cock, and God, _God,_ the _thought_ of that— 

Dain’s desire coursed through him as though it were a living thing, writhing and winding through his arteries and veins. He felt drunk with it, out of his head. He’d wanted Thomas so badly for so long, and now he was here, knelt before him at his bidding. He thought of what he’d seen in the stables earlier, and he _wanted._ He _needed._

 _What harm,_ he thought _, to go one step further. I am already here; I have already crossed the threshold. Surely, there can be no further sin than that I have already been guilty of._

“Thomas,” he said, his voice cracking, “Tell me what you did. Earlier, with Spencer. Tell me.”

Thomas rose slowly to his feet, a quizzical frown on his face. Whatever he had expected from Dain, this was not it. “Sire?” he asked.

“I want to know what you did with him,” Dain said, and he very much did. He wanted to know _exactly_ how Spencer had debauched his Thomas, wanted to know where Thomas had touched and been touched, needed every detail.

“My lord, you saw—”

“I did see. And was that all you’ve done?”

“In the main, my lord,” Thomas said, and swallowed hard. He clasped his hands behind his back, his eyes darting between Dain and the floor. His jet-black hair curled around his face in the steam from the bath, reminding Dain of what he looked like sweaty with exertion.

And then, the words spilling forth from some deep, feral place within him, Dain said, “Show me.”

The words hung there between them for a long moment, heavy and fraught. 

Thomas unclasped his hands, let them hang by his sides. “Show you? You mean—”

“Show me,” Dain said again. “Show me exactly what he did to you.”

“My lord,” Thomas said, his tone halfway between questioning and compliance.

“It’s not a request,” Dain said. Part of him knew this was wrong, an abuse of authority, but another part, the part that ruled him, _burned_ with unsated need for the beautiful creature standing before him.

“Oh,” Thomas breathed. “I see.” 

If Thomas had cried or begged, had tried to run or fight, then perhaps things might have been different. But Thomas, sweet Thomas, closed the last bit of distance between them and rested his hands gently on Dain’s trembling shoulders. Thomas smelled of hay and woodsmoke, and it was intoxicating.

“First, this,” Thomas whispered, and touched his mouth to Dain’s. Dain made a wholly humiliating noise, whining like an animal. He had fantasized about this moment so many times, thought of what Thomas’ mouth might feel like. The reality was—oh, it was better, it was _perfect._ Thomas’s lips were so soft and sweet, pressed firm against Dain’s own. And then Thomas’ tongue, velvet-smooth, glided along the seam of Dain’s lips. 

_Oh,_ Dain thought with wonder. He parted his own lips, and then Thomas traced his tongue along Dain’s. Thomas’s fingers crept along the back of Dain’s neck, playing with the hair there.

It was _so good,_ kissing Thomas, even better than he’d fantasized. The long line of Thomas’s body, which he’d admired so often from afar, was pressed tight against him. He nudged his hard cock rhythmically against Thomas’s hip, revealing his desire and exposing his depravity.

Thomas withdrew, his mouth so close to Dain’s that when he spoke, Dain could feel Thomas’ hot, humid breath on his lips. 

“Enough?” he asked, his eyes large and limpid.

“No,” Dain breathed. _It will never be enough,_ he thought.

“As you say,” Thomas said, and closed his mouth over Dain’s jaw, sucking a gentle kiss there. 

Dain groaned. “Is this a chore for you?” he asked, resting his hands on the back of the boy’s head, pushing fingers through his hair. “Say true, Thomas, is it?”

The boy let his nose slide along Dain’s jawline. “Would it matter?” he murmured against Dain’s throat. “Say true.” Without waiting for answer, he left another wet kiss along Dain’s neck, sucking at it and nipping a little with his teeth.

“No,” Dain gasped. “It wouldn’t.” Dain was power-drunk with having Thomas at last, and no power on Heaven or Earth could make him give him up now.

“Then you needn’t ask,” Thomas said, and slid a hand between Dain’s legs, gripping his cock with firm, elegant fingers.

Dain thought that it _did_ matter, in some way he could not quite articulate, but that faded into the background along with everything else in his mind, because Thomas had his hand on his cock, Thomas was _stroking_ him, Thomas’s mouth was on his throat, and—oh—he was so good at this, oh yes _—oh—_

Dain tightened his hand in Thomas’s hair and let out a choked sob as orgasm swept through him suddenly and without warning. His knees went weak and his hips jerked in Thomas’s loose grip. It went on for an age, Thomas holding him through it. At last, trembling and spent, he opened his eyes to look at Thomas. 

His beauty was breathtaking, and Dain, raw and potent, held that beauty in his possession. 

Dain would have spoken, but nothing that came to mind was anything he wanted to voice. He could only stare, stupidly and helplessly.

“Come, my lord,” Thomas said, gentle, “let’s get you into the bath.”

Dain let Thomas guide him into the warm water, let him lave him with a wet cloth, let him work warm, soapy water into his hair and rub his fingers into his scalp. Everything felt good. He hadn’t thought he’d ever be able to feel this good again.

“You needn’t be this nice to me, Thomas,” he murmured, drowsing in a half-stupor.

“No,” Thomas agreed, “I suppose I needn’t.” And then, in a whisper so soft that Dain wondered if he’d imagined it, “Remember that.”


	7. Chapter 7

# VII.

In the morning, Dain awoke to the sweet, thick aroma of hot cider. He lifted his head from his pillow to see that Thomas had brought it on a tray along with bread and cheese. 

“My Lord,” Thomas said, “I didn’t know what you liked, so I asked in the kitchens.”

Dain rubbed sleep from his eyes. “This is…this is good, Thomas. Thank you.”

“It is my job, sire,” Thomas said. Dain glanced at his face, but it was neutral and calm, revealing nothing. It certainly did not appear to be the face of someone who’d touched him intimately the night before, but neither did it appear to be the face of someone who hated him for it. Dain supposed he could accept that.

“Should I have woken you earlier? It just passed eight bells.”

Dain sat up, stretched and yawned, shaking off the muzziness of sleep. Thomas stood there in his quarters. It was almost too much to believe. “Eight is fine for today. There is to be no council meeting this afternoon. Brucius is out on a hunt and Aron is still visiting Morthe, so there’s little point. Today, the hours are mine to spend as I choose.”

Thomas’s eyes flickered. Dain lifted an eyebrow. “Something wrong, Thomas?”

Thomas shook his head quickly. “No, sire. Nothing.” He paused, then went on, “What need have you for me today? I can see to your mending, if you like, or shine your armor.”

Dain’s mouth went dry. He’d not thought beyond last night, but he realized very suddenly that he had Thomas to himself not just for last night, but for this entire day, and the next. For _all_ of the days, at least until Beatrix returned. _(Or until Thomas ran off,_ a dark part of his mind whispered, but he ignored it.) 

“Stay with me, Thomas,” he said. “The armor and the mending can wait.”

Thomas’s eyes glimmered in the morning sunlight. “As you say,” he said, bowing his head slightly. “Here in your room?”

“Here in my bed,” Dain said, low and rough.

“As you say,” Thomas said, after only the slightest pause. “Shall I undress for bed?”

Dain’s heart skipped in his chest. “Would that please you?” he asked.

Thomas met Dain’s eyes with a clear, unwavering stare. “Don’t,” he said. “Don’t ask that. Not unless the answer matters.”

Dain very nearly opened his mouth to say, _yes, it matters,_ but he stopped himself. It didn’t, not really. He’d _prefer_ if Thomas enjoyed himself, yes; he wanted to make the boy shiver with pleasure the same way he’d done to Dain the night before. He wanted to make him tremble with need. But if he couldn’t have those things, he wanted Thomas nonetheless. He would have Thomas even reluctant and unwilling, if that’s all he could get. And so ultimately he supposed it didn’t matter, not in the way that Thomas meant.

“All right,” Dain conceded. “Then to answer your question, yes.” Dain himself was already undressed, habitually sleeping unclothed in the heat of midsummer.

Thomas made short work of removing his boots, tunic, and trousers. His alacrity pleased Dain; surely if he hated this, he’d have shown some reluctance. Instead, he stood bare, making no effort to cover himself. _Displaying_ himself. 

Dain drank him in with his eyes, his gaze drifting across every inch of Thomas’ exposed skin. _A gift,_ he thought. _This boy is a gift._

“Lord in Heaven, you are beautiful,” he said in a hushed voice. A flush rose on Thomas’ skin, giving it a pretty pink glow. His skin was unblemished and pale except where his arms and neck had been kissed by the sun. His stomach was flat, his hips narrow, and his cock…his cock was just as lovely and well-proportioned as the rest of him, even soft between his legs as it was now. Dain would trade every jewel in the land for this boy; any diamond or sapphire would be dull and pedestrian in comparison.

“Come,” Dain said, making room in the bed next to himself. Thomas climbed in without comment or protest and settled against Dain’s side. Dain exhaled a shaky breath; he’d been hard since Thomas asked if he should undress, and having this expanse of warm, smooth skin pressed against him inflamed his desire even further.

Thomas curled against Dain, fitting his head into the hollow between Dain’s chin and shoulder. “What would you like, my lord?” he whispered into Dain’s ear.

Dain was silent for a time, for longer than was probably appropriate. He didn’t know what to ask for, didn’t even know what he _could_ ask for. He’d heard the bawdy jokes and knight’s tales about what men and women could do together, but he had little concept of what two men could do with each other. His fantasies had run to kissing, touching skin beneath clothing, and occasionally, when he felt very daring, touching each other’s cocks. He’d not got that far with Theodore, and none of his experience with Beatrix applied.

He wanted Thomas in every way, but he had no idea what to ask for. 

“I don’t know,” he blurted, immediately ashamed. His face burned red and he turned away to hide it. 

Thomas lifted his head from Dain’s shoulder. “Sire?” he said curiously. 

“I don’t know,” Dain said again, still facing away, his shoulders tight and rigid. “I don’t know what I want. I don’t know what to ask for. I’ve not—” He stopped. “I don’t know,” he repeated, and fell silent.

Thomas exhaled against him, wrapped his fingers around the outside of Dain’s shoulder. “I see,” Thomas said, and Dain was suddenly afraid that he was being laughed at, mocked for his inexperience. He shifted to look back at Thomas, but the boy’s face bore no mockery. Instead he was quiet and considering, studying Dain.

“Would you like me to show you some things?” Thomas asked, tilting his head up to meet Dain’s eyes. If his face had borne pity, Dain thought that his battered heart might not have survived the blow. But Thomas only looked curious, and perhaps a bit eager.

Eager, Dain could handle. Eager, Dain knew what to do with.

“Yes,” Dain said, his shoulders loosening. “I’d...I’d like that.”

Thomas’ mouth curved into a sweet, small smile. “As you say,” he said. He thought for a moment. “Where have you been kissed?” he asked.

Dain frowned. “Well—the stables,” he said, “and once or twice in the priest’s quarters behind the chapel. And here in this room, I suppose.”

Thomas raised his eyebrows. “I meant—your mouth, your neck?”

Dain reddened again, feeling foolish. “Ah,” he said. “Mouth, yes. A bit on the neck, and...nowhere else, really. I don’t—” He felt unbearably naive. But in the next moment, his awkward discomfort vanished, because Thomas turned his head to press soft, wet kisses against his throat and collarbone.

“Oh,” Dain managed. “I—oh.” 

Thomas thoroughly kissed Dain’s collarbone, then his shoulder, working his way slowly downward. He kissed above Dain’s nipple, then to the right of it, and then he gave it a little kitten lick, and _oh,_ Dain hadn’t known he was sensitive there, but—Thomas licked again, and a third time, and Dain sucked in a gasping breath and arched his back. _“God,”_ he said fervently. It felt as though there was a raw, exposed nerve running directly from Dain’s nipple to his cock.

Thomas’s eyes danced, and he grazed his teeth over Dain’s nipple. Dain moaned, a long _haaaaaah_ sound, and Thomas smiled against his skin and moved lower down, mouthing at his ribs, his stomach, his hips. His cock was hard and leaking from Thomas’s persistent attentions. He wanted Thomas to take him in hand, but he didn’t want him to stop what he was doing with his mouth, and so he simply stared down at Thomas’s head and submitted to the agonizingly slow pleasure.

Just as Dain thought he couldn’t take anymore, Thomas wriggled himself even lower on the bed.

“What—” Dain said, but his mouth fell abruptly closed again when Thomas pushed Dain’s legs apart gently, making space so that he could lay soft, sucking kisses up the insides of Dain’s thighs. Thomas’s soft black curls brushed against Dain’s cock.

Dain closed his eyes, because if he were to look at Thomas’s full, pouting lips on his skin right now, he would not last another second. 

Dain’s breathing was shallow and fast. Thomas was so close to his cock. His mouth was _right there. Surely,_ he thought, _surely he will not kiss my cock. Surely that is too far._ But would he, if Dain asked? If Dain demanded? He could demand it; he could _make_ Thomas do it.

But before he could, a hot, wet suction enveloped his cock. His eyes flew open in shock to see Thomas’s lips wrapped obscenely around the swollen, sensitive crown. Dain’s face went slack and his mind simply overloaded, his thoughts falling away into infinite white blankness.

“Oh,” Dain said tonelessly, “oh my God,” and came _into Thomas’s mouth._ Thomas stayed on his cock while he spurted, taking his issue and _dear God swallowing it._ Dain felt as though he’d just defiled an angel. It was sheer, perverse debauchery. He’d never come so hard in his entire life. His body hummed with stunned relief.

Thomas crawled back up to his side, tucking in against him again, head slotting perfectly into the hollow of Dain’s neck. Dain wrapped an arm around him, drawing him close. He was so warm, so pliant. 

Dain would never let him go, he thought. Not ever.

“Sire,” Thomas said, in a secretive, small voice, “would you taste yourself on me?”

Dain’s eyes opened wide and he turned his head to look at Thomas, whose eyes were wide and innocent as a baby fawn’s. “You filthy thing,” Dain groaned, and then Thomas’s tongue was in his mouth, and yes, he could taste the musk of himself on Thomas, and it was very nearly enough to make him hard again not five minutes after he’d just spilled. 

“Your _mouth,”_ he gasped when they disengaged. _“God.”_

They laid together in silence for several minutes, while Dain’s thoughts coalesced back into something resembling rationality. Thomas breathed regularly against his side, his legs twined around Dain’s. 

Something occurred to Dain. He shifted so that he was lying on his side, facing Thomas. “Thomas,” he said, “I should like to...touch you.”

Thomas murmured into his shoulder, “It is your right.”

Dain wanted to ask if it was what Thomas wanted, but he knew his answer would be that Dain should not ask the question if the answer did not matter. But whether it mattered or not, Dain had been frantic to get his hands on him for months now, and the boy _seemed_ amenable enough, so there was really no reason not to. As well, it would surely be unfair for him not to reciprocate. 

He slid his hand down to grip Thomas’ cock, pleased to find it more than half-hard already. Thomas made a small, quiet noise and pushed his face into Dain’s shoulder. 

Dain was fascinated by how Thomas’s cock felt so similar to his own, the same silky texture and firmness. Thomas was perhaps a little longer than he was, a little broader. A pleasing weight in his hand. Dain skimmed his hand down the length, just the way he liked doing to himself, and Thomas’s cock stiffened noticeably in his grip. 

Dain squeezed experimentally, and Thomas gasped and gently bit his shoulder.

Oh, Dain liked that _very_ much.

“You are gorgeous,” Dain said into Thomas’s ear. “I have wanted you since the moment I saw you.” His hand skimmed up and down Thomas’s cock, slick with fluid. Thomas caught his breath sharply and gave a hard thrust forward.

“Yes,” Dain said, “give in to it. Come on, Thomas.” 

The words spilled from him like a compulsion; he could not have said where they came from, had not thought he had this in him. 

“So pretty,” Dain said, “so sweet.” Thomas’s cock pulsed and his hips rocked forward into Dain’s grip, harder and faster. “So beautiful like this,” Dain said, “my beautiful boy, my Thomas.” Thomas’ mouth opened, his breathy gasps hot and humid against Dain’s skin. 

“Mine,” Dain said, tightening his grip and stroking faster. “Give it to me, Thomas. It’s mine. I want it. _Show me.”_

With a cry, Thomas pressed his mouth against Dain’s, taking him in a frantic kiss just as his cock jerked and spurted in Dain’s tight grip. Dain grabbed at the back of Thomas’s head, holding him in place while he made little sobbing moans into Dain’s mouth. 

Dain felt as though he were a god among mortals, capable of anything. 

After, when Thomas was limp and boneless next to him, dazed and quiet, Dain petted his hair with gentle fingers. “You like being told how pretty you are,” he said. 

Thomas shifted his gaze to Dain, neither confirming nor denying this. 

“Yes, you like it,” Dain said. “And I like saying it, precious thing.”

Thomas closed his eyes, still silent, his face unlined and at peace. Dain kissed him on his forehead and then laid back on his own pillow, feeling content to his bones. He pushed away all unpleasant thoughts of how long this could last and what he would do when it inevitably came to an end. He could dwell on that another day.

#  _Interlude._

Late that afternoon, while Dain was in the great hall for dinner, Thomas slipped away from the servants’ dining hall and up to Dain’s quarters. He went to the writing desk and tried to open the top drawer, finding that it was locked. He arched an eyebrow, interested...but there was no time. He made a mental note for later.

He tried the next drawer, and it opened to reveal a stack of blank parchment, which is what he sought. He hurriedly wrote out a letter, signed it with a flourish, then rolled and tied it tightly. He made sure to leave no traces of his activity, replacing the rest of the parchment exactly as he’d found it. He went to go and find the steward; he’d tell him the letter was from Dain, and Castor would send it out on the next wagon. Castor, Thomas knew, was an incurious man and would not question it. 

Then Thomas would only have to wait for a reply.


	8. Chapter 8

# VIII.

That night, after Thomas sucked him again and he was drifting in the liminal space between wake and sleep, Dain thought on how to provide instruction on Thomas’s new role as valet. While he’d be entirely content to keep the boy ensconced in his quarters permanently, that would probably be noticed and would lead to awkward questions. 

Dain had never had a manservant before, but he knew generally what the expectations were. He thought he’d assign Thomas a few duties here and there; he could take care of Dain’s armor, bring food and drink when requested, keep the fire lit in Dain’s hearth. They’d begin the next day, he thought, pleased at the thought of having Thomas by his side during the day as well as the evening. He turned on his side to nuzzle against Thomas, who made a small, contented noise in his sleep and pushed his head into Dain’s neck. Dain drifted off to sleep with Thomas’s warm, regular breathing against his throat.

* * *

Dain woke at daybreak to an empty space in the bed next to him. He rubbed at his eyes and sat up; the fire was lit in the hearth, banked low. Odd for Thomas to have lit it before bed. Dain stretched and yawned, working the knots of sleep out of his back. And then he blinked; next to the hearth there was a ewer of steaming hot water, a basin, and a towel laid out, appropriate for morning ablutions. And next to the bed, a small stack of neatly folded clothing, which Dain could only assume were his clothes for that day.

Had Thomas—but before he could finish that thought, Thomas entered the room, bearing a tray with bread, cheese, and cider, the same as the day before.

“Good morning, my lord,” Thomas said. “Something to eat to start the day, if you like. Your clothes and your washing water—”

“Yes, I saw,” Dain said. “Well done, Thomas.” He eyed the crusty bread and the chunks of cheese; it was exactly what he liked to have in the morning, though he rarely bothered to retrieve it for himself. Dain looked up at Thomas. “I must ask; have you been trained for this work?”

Thomas peered at him from beneath a wayward curl. “Not as such, sire. But I’ve seen it done.”

Not an _entirely_ satisfying answer. Dain had seen carpentry done, but that didn’t mean he could build a house. It occurred to Dain that he knew very little about Thomas’s prior history, other than that he’d originally come here from Morthe and had no family here in Longmont.

Thomas busied himself arranging the food on the tray. Dain watched for a moment and then asked, “Why did you leave Morthe?” 

Interestingly, Thomas’ hands ceased their motion. His eyes flicked to Dain and a muscle in his jaw twitched.

“Not a difficult question, surely?” Dain added, intrigued.

“Just…” Thomas trailed off, watching Dain consideringly. “Surprised you remembered where I’m from,” he said. “Though perhaps I shouldn’t be.”

Dain huffed out a laugh. “Thomas, I remember every word you’ve ever said to me, including that one,” he said. Thomas’ ears turned pink; Dain wanted to kiss them.

“I was in an arranged marriage,” Thomas said, “and I didn’t want it. So I ran.” He adjusted a bit of cheese on the tray as though he were moving a chess piece, watching Dain sidelong for his reaction.

Dain was a bit taken aback. Arranged marriages were exceedingly rare these days outside court nobility, and Thomas wasn’t court nobility. Dain would have known. Longmont had little contact with Morthe, but the triumvirate and their major courtiers were recorded in the Book of Long Memories, same as every other duchy. “I wasn’t aware they did arranged marriages in Morthe,” Dain said, lifting an eyebrow.

Thomas shrugged. “Now you know. I like it better here anyway,” he added.

Warm, hopeful pleasure settled inside Dain’s chest, his curiosity subsiding for the moment. “I’m glad to hear that,” he said. “I like you better here as well.”

Thomas allowed a small smile but did not otherwise respond to the praise. “I must attend to a few things in my quarters, my lord,” he said instead. “I shall return by the time you need to leave for your meeting with Lords Gerrolt and Brucius, who, I believe, returns from his hunt today.”

Dain’s head snapped up, and he didn’t bother to try to hide his look of incredulity. “Thomas, _I_ only just found out about Brucius’ return last night, and I am sure I didn’t say anything to you about it. How did you know?”

Thomas’s eyes glinted. “It is my job, sire.” He made a little half-bow and turned to go.

Well. Perhaps he wouldn’t be needing much instruction after all.

* * *

Dain’s new servant did not go unnoticed by his advisors. Thomas followed him to the council room, taking position outside the door. Dain looked at him quizzically. “You don’t want to go in?” he asked.

Thomas shook his head. “I should wait here, sire,” he said. 

“I’m the Duke,” Dain said, ignoring the way those words still felt wrong in his mouth. “If I want you there, you can be there.” 

The corner of Thomas’ mouth turned up a little. “It’ll go better if I’m not,” he said. “But it is, of course, your decision, my lord.”

Dain studied him, but Thomas’ face revealed nothing. How, Dain wondered, could this be the same boy who touched and stroked him so eagerly, who kissed him with such fervor? His face could have been carved from marble for all the expression it showed right now. Unsettled, Dain said, “Stay here, then. I’ll call for you if I have need.”

Thomas nodded. “As you say, sire.”

Brucius and Gerrolt showed up a few minutes later. Brucius made a little production out of pointing outside the door and lifting his eyebrows. “Do I see a new servant, Dain? Have you finally caved in and taken a valet?”

Dain lifted a shoulder with studied carelessness. “It seemed time,” he said, “and the boy is talented enough.”

“We’ll see,” Brucius said, pursing his lips. “Your father’s valet was a man of fifty, and he’d been doing the job since he was a boy.”

Dain rolled his eyes. “Yes, well, when Thomas is a man of fifty, he’ll have been doing the job since he was a boy as well, if that pleases you. Has the rest of the duchy decided to govern itself, or are we going to talk about something other than my serving boy today?”

Brucius’ forehead went an interesting shade of reddish-purple, but he held his tongue. Gerrolt, on the other hand, nodded approvingly.

“A good choice, sire,” he said. “Valet of Longmont has always been an esteemed position, and your boy looks up to the task.”

“Thank you, Gerrolt,” Dain said, and hoped that his face revealed nothing of his thoughts, which were that the abilities he’d chosen Thomas for had nothing whatsoever to do with valet service.

Though, he considered, Thomas did seem to be proving rather up to both challenges.

* * *

On the way out of the chamber, Brucius laid a heavy hand on Dain’s shoulder; Dain grit his teeth to stop from reflexively shrugging it off. “Dain,” Brucius said, leaning in so close that Dain could smell the pickled onion he’d had for his lunch, “if your lad has an hour or two spare in his day, there are some jobs I could use him for. It’s been ages since my wardrobe has been seen to, for one thing.”

The thought of Thomas assisting Brucius in any way, much less with his wardrobe, made Dain’s stomach clench.

He forced a smile, patting Brucius’ hand where it laid. “I think he’ll be quite busy enough, Brucius,” he said, “though if you need another servant, I’ll speak with Castor.”

Brucius chuckled. “Perhaps,” he said. “Thomas, is it?” he asked, looking at Thomas standing at the ready next to them.

“Yes, sir,” Thomas said. His eyes were so cold that Dain, startled, recoiled slightly, though Brucius appeared not to notice.

“Well met, Thomas,” Brucius said, and Thomas replied evenly, “As you say, my lord.”

“Perhaps we’ll meet again soon,” Brucius said, winking at Dain, who gave him a tight, thin smile in return. Brucius departed at last after that, and once Dain and Thomas were well out of earshot, Dain said, “That man is an intolerable ass.”

Thomas said, “If you want me to serve him, I will, my lord. It would be considered part of my job.”

“If I _want you to—”_ Dain sputtered. “He’s not ever going to touch you,” he said. “That’s not part of your job and never will be. You’re not his servant; you’re _mine.”_

He gave Thomas a hard look. “Would you even _want_ to?” he asked. 

Thomas’s mouth was thin and tight. “What I want doesn’t matter, sire, as you’ve made clear.”

Dain wanted to scream. This was the same boy who’d looked pink and pleased earlier that day when Dain kissed him, the same boy who’d sighed softly in his arms. “I think we’re familiar enough that you can call me Dain now, Thomas,” he said, itching with irritation.

Thomas stared at him flatly. “As long as I’m your servant, it would be improper for me to use your given name.”

Dain threw his hands up in frustration. He hadn’t meant to have this conversation here—hadn’t really meant to have it at all—but Thomas’s rejection cut to the bone, and the words spilled from his mouth. “I do want to know what you want, Thomas,” he said, low and heated. “It _does_ matter, and you aren’t—you _aren’t_ just a servant, I’d think that would be _clear_ by now.”

Thomas’s eyes burned icy blue. “A servant is _exactly_ what I am, as long as I am beholden to your will, _my lord._ If I wished to leave your quarters and your bed, would you allow it?”

“I—” Dain stammered.

“ _Would_ you? Say true, _Duke Longmont.”_

Dain’s mouth trembled. “I care what you want, Thomas,” he said. “Can you not see that?”

The boy didn’t blink. “Would you allow me to leave, to go back to my job in the kitchens?”

Dain thought of how pliant Thomas was in his arms, how sweet, how giving. How could he want to go back to the kitchens and give that up? He couldn’t; he _wouldn’t._ “Would you even _want_ to?” he asked, not caring that he was raising his voice. “Would you _honestly?”_

Thomas closed his eyes as though in pain, and he swallowed hard. When he opened them again, his expression was unreadable. “Would. It. Matter,” he said, clipped and tight. 

They stared at each other in silence. Dain had been so miserable for so long, and now he had this bright, beautiful boy, and it was everything, _everything._ How could he be asked to give up everything? It was impossible. Might as well ask him to give up the breath in his lungs, to give up the blood in his veins.

Dain said, in a low whisper, “Thomas, I can’t. You have to understand. I _can’t.”_

Thomas gave a small, tight nod. “I understand,” he said. “But do not ask me what I want.”

* * *

Bruised and worn down from their argument, Dain avoided Thomas the rest of the day. He forewent a bath and ate alone. 

Thomas was right, of course. Dain knew it in his heart. He knew that to have him truly and completely, it would have to be by Thomas’s own will. What they had now wasn’t real. Thomas might enjoy the physical pleasures they shared together, but his heart was closed to Dain as long as Dain had him on a leash.

Dain sighed, pushing his food listlessly around his plate. He _could_ simply grant Thomas his freedom and tell him to do as he liked—go back to the kitchens or the gardens, or all the way back to Morthe if he wanted. But the thought of losing him was like a terrible crevasse opening inside Dain. He thought he might not survive it.

 _Yet it comes,_ he thought. Thomas had run away from one duchy; it would not be difficult for him to run away from another. Dain fully expected that one morning, he would wake and Thomas would be gone—from his bed, his lands, and his life. And then Dain would go back to joyless sex with a wife who tolerated him and a dukedom he neither wanted nor was particularly good at ruling. It would last until he died of old age or, more likely, assassination, and that would be his life. That was what he had to look forward to.

 _I can’t give him up,_ he thought miserably.

* * *

That evening, as the light faded from the sky, he called for Thomas from the adjoining quarter, and Thomas came without hesitation.

“Thomas,” Dain said, “I am not much in the mood for anything more than sleep tonight. But I would have you share my bed—” He snapped his mouth closed before adding _if you’d like._

Thomas nodded. “Of course, my lord,” he said, with no trace of his cold fury from earlier. 

Dain felt better when Thomas’s warm body was pressed snug against him beneath the bedclothes. Thomas pushed his head into Dain’s neck in a way that was fast becoming familiar to Dain, and it settled his churning heart. He listened to Thomas’s breathing for a while, not succumbing yet to sleep.

The moon was high and bright this evening, lending an otherworldly bluish glow to the room, limning the bedposts with spectral moonlight. Dain’s thoughts drifted. The strange light and the warmth of Thomas against him made him feel placid and limitless.

“Thomas,” he murmured, “why didn’t you want to be married?”

Thomas had been near to sleep. He lifted his head, made a soft, questioning noise.

“Was she disagreeable?” Dain asked. “Old?”

“No,” Thomas said, sounding a little more awake now. “She was young. Young and lovely, and seemed quite nice, the once that we met.”

Dain shifted, discomfited at the thought of Thomas’s eyes on some lovely young thing. “Then why?” he asked.

Thomas chuckled, a low vibration against Dain’s side. “My lord, is it not obvious?”

Dain thought about that for a moment. He could not fathom why Thomas might reject such a match, other than perhaps simply objecting to the concept of an arrangement in the first place.

“No,” he said, “I find it is not obvious. Did you chafe against being told what to do?”

Thomas lifted up onto an elbow so that he could look at Dain’s face. “A bit,” he said, “but no, it was that it was a woman, and...my lord, forgive me, but you must have noticed they are not to my preference.”

Thomas’s eyes glowed silver in the moonlight. “Yes,” Dain said, “but—but _I_ am married, and the same is true—that is, you can’t…” He trailed off, unable to form his thoughts coherently. Thomas simply waited, watching him.

Finally, Dain said, “So you won’t marry...ever? What of your standing? The continuation of your name?”

Thomas reached out to trace Dain’s jawline with gentle fingers. “I don’t care about my standing or my name,” he said. 

Dain felt as though he were trying to decipher words spoken in some foreign tongue. “But then,” he said, “will others not…” He furrowed his brow, not knowing how to say this. “Will they not realize?” he said finally. “That you prefer...that is to say, what your preferences are?”

“Oh,” Thomas breathed, nearly inaudible. He caressed Dain’s cheek as though Dain were made of the most fragile china. “I’m not ashamed of what I am,” he said, looking into Dain’s eyes. “And I have never been ashamed of anyone in my bed.”

Hot pinpricks formed behind Dain’s eyes. He didn’t understand, could not make sense of this. How could he be anything other than ashamed of what he was? How could he simply... _choose otherwise?_ It was unfathomable, and yet here was Thomas, saying otherwise.

A memory of his brother leapt to Dain’s mind. Tristan had said Dain wouldn’t have to marry, had found the very idea ludicrous. Dain had thought him joking—of _course_ he’d have to marry—but Tristan’s eyes had burned true. “You’ll not have to go through that, brother,” he’d say. “I’ll see to it.” But Dain would laugh, because of course it was a joke. He might be able to get out of providing an heir, but he’d be expected to cement alliances with a well-placed marriage, the same as any other duke’s son. 

But perhaps Tristan hadn’t been joking at all. Perhaps Tristan had truly understood. He’d never been ashamed of his younger brother, had always behaved as though Dain were perfectly normal and not this...aberration.

And then Tristan had died and left him alone. 

Now here was Thomas, unashamed of what he was and who he wanted. Unashamed to share Dain’s bed. And yet, Dain could not find joy in it. He was married, with a child on the way, and Thomas was here under duress. Thomas would leave him, just as Tristan had.

Dain did not, could not, say any more. He turned over with his back to Thomas and pulled the bedclothes up over his shoulders, curling in on himself. But Thomas moved closer and threw his arm over Dain, pulling him into an embrace and molding himself against Dain’s back. He left a soft, quiet kiss at the nape of Dain’s neck.

 _It won’t last,_ Dain thought hollowly. _It can’t._

* * *

After the first week, they’d given up even the pretense of having Thomas stay in a separate room. The valet’s quarters were still made up for him, and his things remained there, but he spent his nights in bed with Dain. 

During the day, Thomas was at his side much of the time, the perfect valet, a few steps behind Dain but always at the ready if Dain needed anything—a fresh quill, or a drink, or the hat he’d forgotten in his quarters. Thomas also proved to have an excellent memory, particularly for names, faces, and family relationships. After the third time that Dain called to him in the corridor in the middle of a council meeting—this time to ask exactly which grand-nephew had got married in Gretna the previous month—Gerrolt rolled his eyes with exasperation. “Just have the boy sit in the chambers with us, for God’s sake; he’s like a walking Book of Long Memories!”

No one objected, least of all Dain.

That night, as Thomas’s nimble fingers worked to remove Dain’s clothing, Dain said, “You’re more than you appear, Thomas.”

Thomas paused, fingers frozen in place. He glanced up, eyes like ten miles of sky. “I’m just a serving boy, my lord,” he said, and then he pressed his mouth under Dain’s jaw in the exact spot that sent cascades of shivers down his spine. 

_You’re more than that,_ Dain thought, but said nothing. 

Later, Thomas joined Dain in the bath, his knees bracketing Dain’s, their wet, slippery bodies sliding against each other as they licked into each other’s mouths. Thomas whispered that he wanted to show Dain something, and he wrapped his hand around both of their hard cocks together, and all Dain could think was to wonder if you could actually die of pleasure.

Most nights, they explored each other in bed. Dain became intimately familiar with every inch of Thomas’s sweet, supple body and with the feel of Thomas’s mouth and hands on him. Thomas showed Dain how to both take and give pleasure, and Dain was an avid student. The only wish Dain had was that Thomas would initiate these encounters. He took part willingly—more than willingly—but never initiated them. And Dain knew better than to ask Thomas what he wanted. 

Dain wondered constantly what would happen if he told Thomas that he was free to go. 

He might stay. But...Dain’s heart was a barren field where no hope grew, and he could not take the chance of losing him. Better to have what they had now, imperfect but more than Dain had ever hoped for, than to strive for perfection and lose everything. 

And Thomas, he knew in his blood, was everything. 

As the days passed, Dain came to learn what he liked and what he didn’t like; and what he liked best of anything was to give Thomas pleasure. He’d stroke Thomas, whispering to him about how pretty he was, how beautiful for Dain, how gorgeous, hungrily watching his bliss-stricken expression as he arched and spurted. Then he’d gather the boy into his arms to caress and pet him until he’d recovered enough to start again. 

And Dain absolutely _adored_ sucking Thomas’s cock—licking it, kissing it, swallowing it down, mouthing at it until Thomas couldn’t hold off any longer and emptied himself helplessly into Dain’s mouth. He loved the sounds Thomas made, the way he rested his hands on Dain’s head to guide him, the way he couldn’t help but thrust into Dain’s mouth at the end. Dain even loved the _taste_ of him.

Thomas always insisted on reciprocating, no matter how limp and wrung-out he was afterward. It was as though he were keeping a mental balance sheet and wouldn’t let himself run into debt. 

Dain was not exactly _bothered_ by this, but it did seem a bit transactional, as though Thomas were paying him for services rendered. He developed the grain of an idea of what to do about it one night as Thomas’s long, lean body was splayed out between his legs, his pretty mouth wrapped around Dain’s cock. 

“You gorgeous thing,” Dain breathed. “All mine.” Thomas made a little noise in the back of his throat, and Dain leaned his head back against the pillows and sighed in contentment, formulating his plan.

* * *

A few nights later, Dain had Thomas stretch out on the bed, lying on his back and reaching his hands up behind him to grasp the bedrailing.

“Are you comfortable?” Dain asked, worried when he saw how the position pulled at Thomas’s shoulders. 

“Yes, my lord,” Thomas said. 

“You must tell me immediately if you begin to cramp or seize, Thomas. Let go at once and I’ll work the cramp out for you. I won’t have you hurt.”

Thomas tilted his chin to look up at Dain. “I know you wouldn’t, my lord,” he said with a soft smile, and Dain’s heart fluttered. “I promise I’ll say. But it is perfectly comfortable, truly.”

“All right,” Dain said, settling onto the bed next to him. “I admit I do enjoy seeing you stretched out this way.” He traced his fingers down the long, exposed length of Thomas’ chest and ribcage, observing with fascination as Thomas twitched and jerked under his gentle touch. “All laid out for me,” he murmured. “Like a gift for the taking.”

Dain kept this soft torment up for some time, letting his hands drift this way and that, caressing Thomas’s belly and thighs. When he teased Thomas’ nipples, Thomas arched his back, biting his lip to hold back a cry. 

“You like that, hm?” Dain said, and bent down to take a nipple in his mouth, laving it with his tongue, letting his teeth scrape gently across it. Thomas squeaked and writhed below him, but Dain did not relent for several minutes, until Thomas finally cried out, “Please, my lord!” and Dain pulled back immediately. 

Thomas panted, sweaty and red-faced from squirming. “Beautiful,” Dain said admiringly. He directed his gaze meaningfully to Thomas’s cock, stiff and red.

“Would you like me to do something about that?” Dain asked. Thomas glared.

“Defiant little thing,” Dain said. “Then more attention here, perhaps?” He thumbed at Thomas’s nipple.

Thomas shook his head frantically.

“No?” Dain said. “Something else?” He traced the pad of his forefinger lightly down the underside of Thomas’s cock.

“Oh,” Thomas gasped, giving in, “lord, please, please—” 

Dain smiled, pleased. “Good boy,” he said, and bent his head to lick a long stripe up Thomas’s cock. The boy made a punched-out noise, _haaanh,_ and thrust his hips upward, gripping the bedrailing with white knuckles.

Dain pressed down on the points of Thomas’s hips to pin him firmly to the bed and licked another stripe, then another. Soon Thomas was hard and leaking and making little frantic _ah, ah, ah_ noises that Dain knew meant he was close. “Look at me,” Dain said, and Thomas did, his eyes unfocused with need. Dain held his gaze, let his mouth curl into a grin, and then swallowed down the length of Thomas’s cock. 

“God!” Thomas cried, and he thrust his cock into Dain’s mouth. Once, then again, and then he came undone with a series of sobbing moans. Dain pinned him tightly to the bed and sucked him all the way through it.

Afterward, Thomas laid limp and trembling while Dain petted at him. “My darling boy,” he hummed. Thomas stared up at Dain, looking unguarded and young. “Brilliant, devious little thing,” Dain said, stroking his hair. “I’m going to take care of you today. Keep your hands on the headboard, sweet.”

Thomas whimpered out a bitten-off noise, not even a word. And Dain started over, tracing gentle fingertips over Thomas’s nipples. He’d been looking forward to this part. He _adored_ the sounds Thomas made when he did this. 

“We’ll go all night if we need to,” he murmured, and licked delicately at Thomas’s nipple.

Thomas came the second time with Dain’s tongue lapping at his slit and his hands caressing his cock and balls. 

“One more time,” Dain said afterward, brushing the sweaty hair from Thomas’s brow. 

“Sire—” Thomas said, sounding a little panicked, lifting his head to give Dain a pleading stare. “Sire, I can’t.”

“Shh,” Dain soothed, leaning down to nip at Thomas’s collarbone. “You can. Just once more. For me, Thomas.” Thomas let his head fall back down onto the bed and took in a hitching, ragged breath. 

“Good boy, Thomas,” Dain said, noting with pleasure how Thomas’s cock jerked at the praise. “That’s my pretty, lovely boy.”

After Thomas’s third orgasm, he was limp and barely conscious, his eyes half-lidded and his face flushed. Dain had him take his hands carefully from the railing and helped him turn onto his belly. With firm, strong strokes, Dain began working the tension from Thomas’s shoulders, circling his thumbs over tight spots and rolling his knuckles over the knotted muscles.

“Feels good,” Thomas mumbled into the pillow. Dain glowed; Thomas must have been truly gone to say something like that. He steadfastly refused to ever say what he liked, or what he wanted, or what felt good.

“You deserve it, my darling,” Dain said, kneading and working. “You were so good. So perfect for me.”

“Wha’ bout you?” Thomas asked.

“I enjoy taking care of you,” Dain said lightly. “I am well-pleased, Thomas.” 

Thomas turned his head to look back at Dain and tried to half-push himself up from the bed. “No,” he said, “that’s not—”

“Shh,” Dain said, and gently pushed him back down. “It is enough. Don’t you want to be good for me?”

Gooseflesh rose on the back of Thomas’s neck, and he shuddered a little. “Yes,” he said, muffled by the pillow.

Dain’s mouth curved into a triumphant smile. “Then relax,” he said. “Close your eyes. That’s exactly what I want, nothing more and nothing less.” 

Thomas made one last little protest, a soft _mmnh_ into the pillow, but not a minute later, his breathing had gone deep and regular with sleep. Dain covered him with a blanket and watched him sleeping there, in Dain’s bed. Dain felt euphoric, post-orgasmic, even though he himself had not actually come this evening. He’d derived his pleasure solely from taking care of Thomas.

His need for the boy was a tangible, physical thing. Dain knew that this was bad. He knew it couldn’t last forever. 

_I would die for him,_ Dain thought. 

He watched Thomas’ spill of black curls over his white pillows, watched his bare shoulders rising and falling in the regular cadence of sleep. 

Dain wasn’t stupid; he knew the relationship was one-sided. He had no delusions that the boy had anything like the obsession for Dain that Dain had for him. He wasn’t sure that Thomas even _liked_ him. And Dain knew that when he left, it would wreck Dain completely.

But he would take what he could get for now. It was a brief interlude of happiness, and he would be grateful for as much as he could get before it ended.


	9. Chapter 9

# IX.

A few days later, after a council meeting, Thomas asked Dain, “Is there not a third advisor? Aron, I think?”

“Yes,” Dain said, wondering what this was about. “He’s absent, tending to business elsewhere.”

“A lengthy absence,” Thomas said, a line present between his brows. 

Dain frowned; thinking back, he supposed he _had_ mentioned Aron’s absence to Thomas at some point. “Your memory, as always, impresses,” he said. “Aron’s absence is a bit longer than usual, yes, but no cause for alarm. Why do you ask?”

Thomas shook his head. “It is nothing, my lord,” he said, smiling easily. “Mere curiosity only.”

Yet Dain wondered. “Do you know Aron?” he asked, on a sudden hunch.

Thomas laughed as though Dain had made a joke. “Not even a little bit,” Thomas said. “Though I do look forward to meeting him.”

Dain frowned again, not entirely satisfied by this answer.

“Come, lord,” Thomas said, “did you not want to visit the gardens this afternoon?”

Dain did want to, though he knew perfectly well that Thomas brought it up only to divert his attention from the question of what Thomas thought of Aron. But being distracted by Thomas was no great hardship. And at any rate, he knew that Thomas would say what was on his mind when he was ready, and not a moment before.

* * *

The vegetable gardens were thick with green vines and lush, thriving bean plants. Bees hummed in and around the squash blossoms and the pea plants had all gone to seed. 

“Do you remember the last time we were here?” Dain asked, the heat and the lazy buzzing making him feel languorous and sentimental.

Thomas shot him a knowing, sidelong glance. “Yes, as a matter of fact. You told me I was looking well in the sun, as I recall,” he said.

Dain threw his hand over his heart in mock outrage. “I said that my _subjects,_ the _pea plants,_ were looking well in the sun,” he huffed. He met Thomas’s amused look. “And so they were,” he said. “And so _you_ were, as I recall.”

Thomas’s ears turned pink. “Well,” he said, lacing his hands behind his back and gazing up to the sky, “you were looking reasonably well yourself. As I recall.”

Dain _beamed,_ unable to help himself. It was exceedingly rare for Thomas to admit to any sort of affection for Dain. In fact, it was _so_ rare that Dain could enumerate each instance, give every detail, recite them word-for-word. He saved them like precious jewels in a velvet-lined case, taking them out on special occasions to admire them, and this one would join the rest.

“My lord Dain,” came a familiar voice from behind them, ruining the moment. Dain froze, the hair rising on his neck. Thomas’s eyes darted to Dain’s face, then to the man who stood now behind him in priest’s robes.

“Brother Theodore,” Dain said, turning to greet him.

“An age since we’ve spoken,” Theodore said, his eyes on Thomas standing at Dain’s side. “I’ve heard tales of your new valet, and speak of the devil, here he is.”

“Hardly a devil, Theodore,” Dain said tightly.

“An expression, nothing more,” Theodore said, in a velvet timbre that Dain had once found alluring. Theodore’s eyes narrowed. “I’ve heard he’s always at your side these days.”

Ah. 

“He is my valet,” Dain said. “The position was open.”

“So it was simply about filling an open position?” Theodore asked. His eyes were cold and distant. “Anyone could have done it?”

“Thomas isn’t just anyone,” Dain said, his chest tight and hot. _He dares,_ he thought in wonderment and growing anger. _He dares to speak to me of_ Thomas _._

“No,” Theodore said, his voice dropping into a purr, “I expect he’s not. I expect the Lady Beatrix will be delighted to meet him, as well, won’t she?”

Dain was not skilled at the language of diplomacy, but even he could recognize such an obvious, clumsy threat. Rage swelled like a tidal wave in Dain’s chest. “What—” he spat, but Thomas had already slipped gracefully in front of him, putting himself between Theodore and Dain.

“Thomas of Morthe,” he said, holding out a hand.

Theodore looked at him as though he were a rotted pile of vegetables. “Brother Theodore of Longmont,” he said, and gripped his hand for no more than a split second before dropping it.

“Well met, Theodore,” Thomas said. “You have me at a disadvantage, I fear.”

Dain was still reeling from Thomas having pushed him out of the way, and he now watched the conversation unfold as though he were watching a game of draughts. 

“Oh?” Theodore asked, stepping forward into Thomas’s space, crowding him. It was a move that was well-familiar to Dain; he wondered that he had never recognized it before as an attempt to intimidate. Thomas only lifted a cold eyebrow and held his ground.

“Yes; it seems you’ve heard so much about me, but I fear that my lord has never mentioned you once.”

Theodore gave Dain a sharp look. 

_Well, why_ would _I speak of you,_ Dain wanted to say. _You were quite clear that there was nothing to talk about._

“I’ll have to ask him for stories of your time together,” Thomas went on. Dain moved closer to him, resting a possessive hand on his shoulder. “Perhaps I can share them with the council when next we meet. Lord Gerrolt does love a good story. Come to think of it,” he said, wrinkling his brow in thought, “isn’t Gerrolt the one who hired you?”

Theodore’s eyes bugged out, making him resemble nothing so much as a small, panicked rabbit.

 _You hypocrite,_ Dain thought, and could hardly believe he had once considered this man a friend.

“Kind of you to offer, Thomas,” Dain said, “but there’s really nothing worth telling.”

“Ah,” Thomas said, his eyes still trained on Theodore as though he had him at the point of a lance. “My mistake, then. Perhaps after all there’s nothing to tell the council.”

“I—” Theodore said, color rising in his face. “I have to return to the chapel. I—good day. Good day to both of you.”

He stumbled over his own robes in his haste to depart, scurrying off as though he were being chased. Dain squeezed Thomas’s shoulder, dumbstruck. Theodore might have been playing at draughts, but Thomas...Thomas was playing an altogether different game entirely.

“How did you know?” Dain said in a low voice. He’d never talked to Thomas about Theodore, never mentioned what they’d done together. And yet Thomas had been able to use Theodore’s past actions against him to make a counter-threat so subtle that Theodore could not even _acknowledge_ it without damning himself. 

“You said that one of the places you’d been kissed was the priest’s quarters.” Thomas shrugged. “And Brother Theodore is not exactly hard to read.”

“I suppose not,” Dain said, still stunned. Thomas had identified the threat and handled it before Dain had even grasped the danger. And for no real gain to himself that Dain could see.

“Thomas,” he said, “you are kind to me even though you needn’t be.”

Thomas inclined his head with a faint smile. “Exactly as you say, my lord,” he said.

Dain shook his head. Intrigue escaped him and so did half of what Thomas said on most days. “I am tired and hungry,” he said. “Shall we take dinner in our chambers?”

Thomas nodded. “As you say,” he said. 

Thomas had not bothered to correct him when he’d said _our chambers._ Though Dain could envision no future in which he and Thomas were together, his heart nonetheless leapt.

* * *

Halfway through dinner, a messenger came for Dain with news that Aron was within a day’s ride of the castle and would be home by nightfall.

“And how fares Lord Aron?” Dain asked politely of the messenger, a young lad with sandy-brown hair and skin tanned brown from the sun.

“He fares well, sire,” the boy said in a practiced cadence, “and sends his regards and his pleasure at returning to Longmont.”

Dain thanked the messenger and sent him off. He frowned, his forehead creased with thought. 

“The prodigal son returns,” Thomas said, cocking an eyebrow.

Dain sighed. “It would seem so,” he said. “I suppose that means we’ll have to have a council meeting tomorrow.”

“Indeed,” Thomas said. “It should be enlightening.”

Dain shot Thomas a sidelong look, but Thomas only took a sip of mead, looking innocent as a babe, and said nothing more on the subject.

* * *

The next day, Aron swept into the council chamber in voluptuous burgundy robes embroidered in gold, reminding Dain of a performing troubadour. 

“Welcome home, Lord Aron,” he said. “You have been missed these several weeks. How fares Morthe?”

Given his opening, Aron seized it. “It fares well, sire,” he pronounced in lordly tones. “Let me tell you of the Solemn Court.”

What followed was a tour de force of wild, exotic stories and tales. Aron described the Triumvirate in exquisite detail, down to the silver and bronze baubles on their jewelry. He talked of the strange architecture of Morthe, of the castle built to overhang the river, so that one could see fish leaping beneath one’s feet through clever windows cut into the floor. He wove tales of streets glittering with gold dust, of castle corridors filled with mirrored glass. And lastly he told of the negotiations he’d made with landholders there, of how he’d built relationships with the lords of the court. 

“In fact,” he said, pausing for full effect, “a diplomatic envoy from Morthe will be here in three days’ time to negotiate terms for trade.”

Dain’s eyebrows shot up, and he wasn’t the only one surprised. Brucius’ mouth hung open, and even Gerrolt looked faintly alarmed. 

“That is...surprising, Aron,” Dain said. “Three days is barely enough time to ready the castle.” _And how exactly did you get around the one-year diplomatic moratorium?_ He drew breath to ask, but out of the corner of his eye saw Thomas giving him a subtle shake of the head. Dain frowned, but held his tongue. Thomas’s instincts in these matters were usually quite good, he’d found. He’d ask afterward what that was about.

“I have offered the envoy the use of my own chambers,” Aron said magnanimously. “And they assure me the delegation will be small in number. It should be no great imposition.” 

“Mm,” Dain said. “That is...well. And what do you believe the envoy will want to discuss?”

“That, I cannot say, my lord.” Aron bowed, and his smile was oily enough to butter bread.

* * *

After the council meeting dispersed, Thomas drew Dain aside. “Is there a quiet place for us to speak, my lord?” he said. Dain gave him a puzzled look, as they frequently spoke in Dain’s quarters, which were private enough. 

“Someplace that no one will come looking for you,” Thomas elaborated. 

“Ah,” Dain said, “there is a place, yes. Follow me,” and he led Thomas to the solarium, which was exactly as he had left it the last time he’d been there, several weeks prior.

“Private and quiet here,” Dain said, dropping into a well-padded chair next to a spinning wheel, “and no chance of being interrupted by the chambermaid.”

Thomas went to the window and peered through it. “A good view of the gardens from here,” he said, lifting an eyebrow.

“Oh, is there?” Dain said, feeling his cheeks heat. “I’m sure I hadn’t noticed.”

“Mm-hm,” Thomas said, leaning against the wall with a smirk. His long, lean body was put to good display in that position; Dain licked his upper lip and made no attempt to look elsewhere. 

“Your advisor Aron,” Thomas said, “is lying to you.”

 _Well,_ Dain thought with a distinct lack of surprise. He probably ought to have been more shocked, but it had been a long day, and he was drained. “Never did trust him,” he said, and then after a pause, “Lying about what?”

Thomas said, “He didn’t visit Morthe. Has never even been to Morthe.”

“But he has friends and family there—” Dain stopped. “He doesn’t have friends and family there?” he asked. 

“No,” Thomas said, sounding amused.

Dain frowned. “And how do you know?” he asked. “You told me you had no knowledge of the Solemn Court.”

Thomas studied Dain for a moment. “Dain,” he said finally, "I have not been entirely honest with you.”

Dain said warily, “Oh?”

“I’ve seen the Solemn Court, and I have...some familiarity with it.”

“Some familiarity,” Dain repeated.

Thomas’s eyes did not quite meet Dain’s. “Yes,” he said. “I will tell you more, I swear it, but first we must discuss your advisor. I think that perhaps time is not on our side.”

Dain worried at his lip with his teeth. His curiosity about Thomas gnawed at him, and he wanted badly to find out exactly what Thomas knew about the Solemn Court and why Thomas had lied. On the other hand, Thomas would not have asked him for this private audience were the matter not serious.

Dain sighed. “All right,” he said, “but we _will_ come back to that, and you _will_ give me answers.”

Thomas bowed his head. “Of course, my lord.”

“All right,” Dain said, “then tell me what you make of what Aron said today.”

Thomas gave a sharp laugh. “An impressive pack of lies,” he said. “I particularly liked the bit about the fish.”

“Was _any_ of it true?” Dain asked.

“He’s not been to Morthe a day in his life, I’ll guarantee it,” Thomas said. “‘Baubles dripping from the Triumvirate’s robes’,” he mimicked. “Idiot. The Triumvirate don’t even wear robes. They dress like commoners.”

Dain hummed in thought. “I suppose that’s why he picked Morthe,” he said. “Hardly anyone has been there, so no one would catch his lies. His poor luck that a child of Morthe happens to be my personal valet,” he said, eyeing Thomas.

Thomas looked thoughtful. “I do wonder,” he said, “why Aron picked Morthe. Yes, it’s distant and few have been there, but the same could be said of other distant places. Why not Farling? Why not Redstone? Why Morthe specifically? He wants the pretense of a delegation from _Morthe_ here.” He tapped his finger on his chin in thought.

“And who’s that delegation really, if they’re not from Morthe?” Dain added.

Thomas arched an eyebrow. “Oh, Jost,” he said.

 _“What?”_ Dain said. “How—”

“The messenger that told us of Aron’s return had a slight Jostian accent,” Thomas said. “And Aron’s speech has a similar flavor to it, though I expect that will fade in a day or two’s time.”

“He did?” Dain asked. “I noticed no particular accent.”

Thomas shrugged. “I have a good ear for it,” he said. Dain stared at Thomas.

“I don’t know why Jost would want to pretend to be from Morthe, though,” Thomas mused. He looked through the window again, lost in thought.

“Well, Jost hates Morthe,” Dain blurted.

Thomas looked at him as though he’d sprouted horns and a tail. “Say again?” he said.

“The Duke of Jost hates Morthe,” Dain said. “He ranted about it at length the last time they visited here for a tournament. Father complained about it afterward to Gerrolt because Jost wouldn’t shut up about it at dinner, how Morthe holds more jewels and finery than the rest of the duchies put together and that the only reason they haven’t been breached is because everyone is afraid of a bunch of old wives’ tales about the Triumvirate, and so on and so forth.” 

Thomas absorbed this information for a moment. “Ah,” he said at last, “that’s...interesting.”

Dain frowned, unable to see whatever connection Thomas had just made, and now thoroughly convinced that Thomas was hiding much more about himself than he’d said.

“Thomas,” he began, but Thomas held up a hand.

“My lord,” Thomas said, “I know you have questions. But there are a few things I must see to before we discuss further.”

Dain pursed his lips, irritated and not a little afraid. Aron was up to something, and Thomas was lying to him. Dain was constantly afraid already that Thomas was going to leave him, and right now Thomas was behaving _very_ strangely. And, Dain thought with growing anger, Thomas was his _manservant,_ supposed to do his bidding, and now he’d told Dain that not only had he lied about his background, but he could not elaborate any further about it until he, what, ran some errands first?

“What things could you possibly have to _see to?”_ Dain asked, his brow a thin, hard line. He wanted very much to regain control of this situation.

“Do you trust me?” Thomas asked, unexpectedly.

This stopped Dain in his tracks. Did he? Thomas had defended him to Theodore, had so far willingly done everything Dain had asked of him. He had revealed Aron’s treachery to him, unbidden. But he had also lied to Dain, _been_ lying to Dain. 

Thomas waited for Dain’s answer with a calm expression and bright, watchful eyes.

Dain bit a nail, looking away. Thomas hadn’t had to reveal his lies. He could have stayed silent, let the danger to Dain go unchecked. But he had revealed them, or at least part of them. That spoke well of him, and…

Dain sighed. And he _wanted_ to trust Thomas. Wanted to believe that the lovely, sweet boy who curled into his side every night was faithful and true. _Needed_ to believe it.

“I—yes,” Dain said, “I suppose...I suppose I do.” 

“Thank you,” Thomas said softly. “I will be in our quarters after dinner, and we will talk then.”

“All right,” Dain said, and then, suddenly exhausted, waved his hand in the direction of the door to send Thomas on his way.

After Thomas left, Dain stayed in his chair for quite some time, his mind churning through thoughts of Aron, and Jost, and Thomas, and the Solemn Court. _How can I be Duke of Longmont,_ he thought wearily, _if I know absolutely nothing of what goes on inside my own walls?_


	10. Chapter 10

# X.

When Dain returned to his quarters from dinner, it took him a moment before his mind could register what he saw.

Thomas sat at his writing desk, the top drawer opened _—how, it had been locked, he_ knew _it had been locked, it was_ always _locked—_ and all of Dain’s drawings and stories spread out across the surface. 

It was as though the past months had never happened, as though he were standing back in the chapel with Theodore, his insides freezing to solid ice. Spots danced in front of his vision, and he heard a loud roaring in his ears.

Thomas, beautiful Thomas, sat surrounded by the remnants of Dain’s shattered heart. 

“I...I could have you flogged,” Dain croaked. 

Thomas smiled a little. His eyes were soft and bright. “But you wouldn’t,” he said. “Would you?”

Dain shook his head, a tiny little movement, all he could manage. “No,” he said. “Couldn’t hurt you. Never would.” His throat tightened so that he could not force out any more words. Drawings of Tristan covered the surface of the desk behind Thomas. He must have been looking at them. Looking at Dain’s soul, looking at everything he’d tried to shutter away. Dain felt like a raw, exposed wound. The room went blurry and out of focus, and Dain realized that he was crying.

“I said I trusted you,” he said, voice cracking.

“I know,” Thomas said. “And I hold that trust sacred. Will you come to me?” He held his arms out, and Dain, helpless, went to Thomas and fell to his knees at his side. 

“Your brother,” Thomas said. Dain nodded miserably. “You loved him,” Thomas said.

“Yes,” Dain said, voice trembling. “I do still.” He laid his head down in Thomas’s lap and let Thomas stroke his hair, taking comfort from him as he had from no one since his mother had died, when he was a very small boy. Dain thought that this should feel like a betrayal, a violation, but it didn’t; it felt like a _relief,_ an agonizing, blissful relief.

“Tell me about him,” Thomas said, fingers gently carding and combing through Dain’s hair. 

“He was...he was kind to me,” Dain said, tears falling freely down his cheeks, soaking into Thomas’s trousers. “He thought I was clever and funny. He looked out for me, and he was so strong and brave. Everyone liked him. He would have been such a good Duke. He was _born_ for it, Thomas. He should be—he should be doing this. Not me. I’m no good for it. He told me—he told me—” The words caught in Dain’s throat. 

“Shh,” Thomas soothed, stroking him like a child. “I have you.”

Dain tried to swallow past the hard, hot lump in his throat. “He told me I would never have to marry. He _knew._ He knew who I was, and he loved me anyway, and I miss him so much.” Dain clutched at the fabric of Thomas’s trousers. “It should have been me, Thomas. I should have gone over that cliff, and everyone would be better for it, I swear to you. He was so good and I loved him _so much._ Why? _Why did he leave me?”_

Dain sobbed into Thomas’s lap until he had no tears left, only hitching breaths. Thomas let him cry, stroking with gentle hands, murmuring soothing words of comfort. At last, when the torrent subsided, Thomas took his hands, drew him up, and stood with him. 

“Come,” he said, steering him to the bed and guiding him to sit on the edge. Thomas sat next to him, hands entwined.

“Dain,” he said, “some of those drawings were of me.”

Dain felt like a beach scoured by a storm, emptied of everything, with no words left to speak. What could he say? Yes, I drew both of the men in my life that I have loved. Yes, I drew you so that I would have something of you after you were gone. He stared helplessly at Thomas.

“Tell me,” Thomas said, “that it matters.” 

A shard of ice pierced Dain’s chest. “Thomas,” he rasped in terror. 

This was it. Thomas was leaving. Dain’s obsession had proved too much, and he’d driven Thomas away. He’d known it was coming; he could put off the inevitable no longer. It was here, upon him.

“Tell me,” Thomas urged. “Tell me that what I want matters. Tell me that I can do as I wish and go where I like.”

Dain thought he’d cried himself dry, but fresh floods of tears streamed down his cheeks. He bent his head, unable to even look at the boy he was about to lose forever.

He knew he could not hold Thomas any longer. Dain no longer simply wanted the pretty boy he’d seen out working in the gardens; he wanted _Thomas,_ the whole person, clever and dangerous and kind. He’d pretended at having him, but it hadn’t been real, and it _couldn’t_ be real. He couldn’t have Thomas, not like that. And so Thomas would go. 

He looked up, blurry with misery, into Thomas’s lovely sky-blue eyes. He leaned forward to leave a gentle kiss along Thomas’s jaw, savoring his scent and his delicate skin for the last time.

“It matters,” Dain said, closing his eyes in pain. “It matters, and you can do as you wish. I won’t keep you here. I’m sorry, Thomas. I truly am.” His chest hurt and hot pinpricks raced up and down his arms. He wanted nothing more than to curl into a tight ball and sleep for a month. 

“Dain,” Thomas was saying. “Dain, look at me.”

Dain opened his eyes. It seemed unfair, unjust, that Thomas could look so beautiful even in this moment. “I am looking at you, love,” he said, his heart held together with nothing more than fraying twine. 

Thomas brushed his fingers along Dain’s mouth with soft affection. “There is steel in your heart,” he said, so soft as to be nearly inaudible. And then, meeting Dain’s eyes directly, he said, “You say I can do what I wish.”

“Yes,” Dain said. His shoulders drooped.

“Well, what I wish is to stay here with you, if you’ll have me.”

“What,” Dain said, uncomprehending.

“Did you think that my choice would be to leave?” Thomas asked, tilting his head. “Truly?”

“Yes,” Dain said. “Is it...is it not?” A spark of something like hope glimmered in his chest. 

Thomas curled his arm around Dain’s neck and pulled him in for a kiss, soft and sweet, licking along the seam of Dain’s lips. “No,” he said afterward, his eyes brilliant blue, “it is not.”

The spark of hope flared into a bonfire. Dain made a strangled sound and pulled Thomas into a rib-cracking embrace, but it was all right; _everything_ was all right, because Thomas was in his arms, and Thomas was staying. “You’re staying,” he said, needing to hear it aloud. “Truly?”

“Yes,” Thomas laughed into his neck, “yes, I’m staying.”

Dain knew that there were still obstacles, maybe even insurmountable obstacles—his wife and heir, for one thing—but the great cliff that had loomed on his horizon since practically the day he’d met Thomas had vanished, leaving nothing but a long, winding road in its stead. A road they might travel together.

Dain pressed a hard kiss to the side of Thomas’s head, burying his nose in curls. “Why?” he said. “Why wouldn’t you ever say, before?”

Thomas extricated himself gently from Dain’s arms, the laughter fading from his face. The air between them went sharp and silent, like the sky before a storm. 

“I like you, Dain,” Thomas said. “I like you very much.” He paused. “Very much indeed.”

For Dain’s bruised and scoured heart, this confession felt like sinking into a cool, soothing bath. He exhaled a shuddering sigh.

“It would have near killed me to leave,” Thomas said. “But I won’t live in a cage. Not even a pretty cage, with the prettiest of jailers. You understand?”

Dain did, with sudden, shocking clarity, and could have struck himself for how foolish he’d been over the past several weeks. “Yes,” he said fervently. “I do. You’ll not be jailed. Not ever again, I swear it.”

Thomas gave him a lupine smile, and a shiver went down Dain’s spine.

“My lord—” Thomas said.

Dain raised his eyebrows. “Back to that now?” he said.

“Habit,” Thomas said, and then with a sly smile, “Besides, I think you like when I call you _my lord.”_

Dain’s face heated. “I—” he sputtered, thinking of Thomas murmuring _yes, my lord, that’s just it, just like that,_ while stroking his cock. “Well,” he said. “I— perhaps.”

Thomas grinned. “Anyway, _my lord,_ come and lie with me. We have many things to talk about, but there is no reason not to do it in comfort.” He pulled his tunic over his head, displaying a long, pale expanse of skin. 

Dain quickly shed his clothing as well. “You have the best ideas,” he said, climbing into bed next to Thomas, curling into the warm, inviting circle of his arms.

“Mm-hm,” Thomas agreed. “I do.”

* * *

“I am sorry,” Thomas said, nuzzling into Dain’s neck, “about finding your drawings. But I knew you were hiding something, and I couldn’t tell you more without finding what it was.”

“Did you think it was indenture paperwork?” Dain asked. Thomas wouldn’t have been wrong to suspect Dain of something like that after his behavior of the past months.

“Perhaps,” Thomas said. “That was one possibility; there were others. I couldn’t trust you, not fully, until I’d found out for sure.”

“It’s all right,” Dain said truthfully, pressing a kiss to Thomas’s shoulder. “I’m glad you found my drawings. You’re the first who’s asked me about Tristan since—”

Dain’s voice caught. He still couldn’t say it out loud, but Thomas understood anyway. “You can tell me about him any time you like,” he said. “I will always listen.” He kissed Dain’s cheek.

Dain rolled onto his side to face him. “And you’ll be fully honest with me now?” he asked.

Thomas tilted Dain’s chin up toward him with two fingers so that their eyes met. “Yes,” he said. “With you, yes. I _wanted_ to before, but—”

“You couldn’t,” Dain finished for him. “Not until you were sure of me. Not until I’d let you go.”

A smile touched Thomas’s lips. “As you say,” he said. “As for the truth...well, I have more than a little knowledge of the Solemn Court,” he said. “My mother was a courtier; I was raised in and around the court. I know it well. I know it well enough to know that it does not host casual visitors, and never visitors traveling on their own. Only official delegations, negotiated in advance. When you said that Aron was visiting there, I wrote to my mother.”

“Your mother,” Dain said faintly. He could not quite wrap his head around it. Thomas…a child of the Solemn Court, all this time.

“Yes,” Thomas said. “She confirmed that he’s not been there once. And their borders are secure; they’d know.”

Dain curled a little closer into Thomas’s side. “‘Their borders’?” he asked.

Thomas smiled. “I am of Longmont now,” he said. “Am I not?”

Warmth suffused Dain. “You are,” he said. He worked a hand inside Thomas’s shirt, resting it against his warm, flat stomach. _Mine,_ he thought. 

They laid in silence for a few minutes, Dain’s mind churning. He was no good at piecing through this sort of thing, had no idea what the implications of Aron’s treachery and his apparent alliance with Jost might be. And on top of that, finding out that Thomas was the son of a Morthe courtier…

Dain frowned. “You said your mother was a courtier,” he said.

“I did,” Thomas said, turning to prop himself up on an elbow and watch Dain’s face.

“But there is no record of you in the Book of Long Memories.”

“There isn’t.” 

Thomas’s face displayed a keen sharpness he never showed to anyone but Dain. Dain wagered that if he asked the other servants about him, they’d only say that he was cheerful and a good worker, nothing more, no mention of his keen intelligence, his eagle eye, or his talent for subterfuge.

Thomas offered no further information, his eyes glittering, and Dain felt as though he were being tested. He closed his eyes so he could think.

All the nobles and courtiers of the nine duchies were recorded in the Book of Long Memories. The only reasons a descendant would not be recorded were if they had died or moved out of the dominion before the age of reason, which was clearly not the case for Thomas. Names were sometimes struck in cases of exile or treason, but those names were not removed entirely, only struck through with a black mark. Thomas’s name had never been written at all.

The only other time would be…Dain’s eyes widened. 

“My father once told me that the best spymasters come from Morthe,” Dain said quietly.

“Did he,” Thomas said, a hint of amusement in his voice.

“If you could manage to find one.”

Thomas’s mouth curved into a grin. “It would be quite a feat. They’re tricky, I hear.”

A _spymaster._ Would this day’s wonders not cease? Apprentices to the spymaster’s guild were trained from a young age in the subtle arts of diplomacy and espionage. It was said that with a good spymaster on his side, a king could unite or destroy nations without raising a single sword in battle. They were rare on the ground; the guilds only took one apprentice per year at the most, and sometimes none at all, if they deemed none worthy that year. 

And the very best of the best came out of Morthe.

“You were trained?” Dain asked.

Thomas pressed a gentle kiss onto Dain’s forehead. “I was,” he said.

Dain’s head spun. He’d spotted a pretty young thing in the courtyard one day, and ended up in bed with a _spymaster._

“That’s why your marriage was arranged,” Dain suddenly realized. “Someone else wanted an alliance in exchange for a trained spymaster.” 

Thomas nodded. “Yes. Unfortunately, the spymaster did not agree that the alliance was worth it.”

Dain kissed Thomas in the center of his chest. “Thank the heavens for that,” he said. “I’m surprised they didn’t send anyone after you.”

“Oh, they did,” Thomas said. “Not to drag me back in chains,” he added, seeing Dain’s horrified expression. “Just to watch me for a while, to make sure I wasn’t going to give away the keys to the kingdom. Once I’d convinced them I was settling into the life of a simple servant boy, they left me alone.”

“They let the alliance fall apart?” Dain asked, curious. 

“They took the apprentice two years behind me,” Thomas said. “It means they’ll have to wait a year before the marriage, due to his youth, but he was amenable and it was better than letting the whole thing fall apart. It worked out well for him, but the Triumvirate was well pissed off.” 

“Couldn’t they have...forced you?” Dain asked. “Not that I’d want that, of course,” he added hastily. “It just seems you’re quite a valuable resource for them to let run off.”

“I am,” Thomas said, the amusement fading from his face. “But you can’t keep a spymaster of Morthe anywhere he doesn’t want to be,” he said with a flat smile. “Even an apprentice one.”

Dain went still, not missing the implication of that statement. “So when I had you here against your will—”

Thomas brushed Dain’s hair back from his forehead. His eyes shone star-blue. “It was never against my will, Dain,” he said. “Except that you thought you were caging me. I didn’t want that, and I couldn’t live like that. _We_ couldn’t have lived like that. But I could have left whenever I wanted, yes.”

“You feigned fear quite well when I caught you outside the stables once,” Dain pointed out.

Thomas smiled. “I _was_ worried,” he said. “I thought you might send me away, and I do rather like it here.”

“Do you,” Dain sighed, closing his eyes.

“Mm-hm,” Thomas said. “Quite a lot, in fact.”

Dain felt an odd combination of shame and relief—shame that he’d been so thoroughly deceived, and relief that he’d never actually trapped Thomas and forced him into anything he didn’t want. He supposed that in a way, it was as though the Duke of Longmont had kept and held Thomas, and Dain had been the one to finally release him. 

Dain felt more himself now than he had for a long time, settled in his skin. He didn’t have to be _The Duke,_ cold and imposing. He could just be Dain, the Dain who had loved Tristan, and the Dain who loved— 

Dain stopped, unable to finish that thought. _Not yet,_ he thought. _Not ready. Too much for one day._

“I’m glad,” he said instead. “Glad you could have left, and glad you didn’t.”

Thomas stroked Dain’s face. “As you say,” he said quietly. 

More time passed, with Dain curled comfortably into Thomas’s arms, his mind drifting through the events of the day and all the things he’d just been told. Aron a traitor, who’d been lying to the court for months, if not longer. What had he been doing in Jost? And what was Jost planning in all of this?

Dain sighed.

“All right?” Thomas asked, running gentle fingers through Dain's hair.

“I’m not very good at this sort of thing,” Dain said. “Court intrigue. It was always Tristan’s area. I’m better at…” He waved his hand in the direction of his writing desk. “Drawings, stories, that sort of thing.”

“I can think of some other things you’re _very_ good at,” Thomas whispered into his ear, and Dain flushed red, the skin prickling on the back of his neck. “Though I do like your drawings very much,” he said, nipping at Dain’s earlobe and making him gasp. 

“Anyway, there’s no need to worry,” Thomas said, rolling over on top of Dain and bracketing his arms with his own. “You needn’t be involved with court intrigue.”

Thomas’s hot, hard length pressed against Dain’s hip; Dain hooked his ankle around Thomas’s calf and reeled him close, grinding his own erection into Thomas. “Needn’t I?” Dain gasped. “I’m the Duke, you know.”

“No,” Thomas said, pushing his hips into Dain and leaving him breathless. “You have a spymaster now.”

“I do?” Dain asked, letting his head fall back to the pillows while Thomas suckled along his neck and collarbones.

“You do,” Thomas said, in between kisses. “So lie back”—he ground his hips hard into Dain—“and let him do what he’s good at.”

“All right,” Dain sighed, and gave himself over into Thomas’s hands.


	11. Chapter 11

# XI.

The next morning, Dain opened his eyes to find Thomas already awake and sitting by the fire, reading through an ancient, water-stained history of Longmont. Dain took a moment to admire the view, Thomas pale and pretty as always, clothed in a silk dressing gown and looking more like an odalisque than a spymaster. 

“You know,” Dain said, “you never asked me about Aron. Shall I tell you what I know of him?”

Thomas pursed his lips into a little smile and closed the book. “Shall I guess?” he asked, crossing his ankles and leaning back in his chair, staring at the ceiling as though deep in thought. “Tall, dark, and fancies himself handsome. Leaves a chain of broken hearts among the ladies of the court, as well as one or two of the gentlemen. Likes rich foods and expensive clothing. Was made a court advisor at the behest of your father’s sister the late Lady Margrethe, and against your father’s better judgment, I might add.” 

Dain’s mouth fell open in surprise. Thomas went on, “Talented with turning a phrase, as well as with calligraphy, and can forge any signature he’s had opportunity to study for longer than a day, including yours and the prior Duke’s. And,” he finished, “has been spending overmuch of his time in Jost lately plotting against his own duke.”

“Gentlemen?” Dain finally managed, once he got his tongue working again. Thomas laughed.

 _“That’s_ what you took from all of that? Yes, brief dalliances with Ciaren in the kitchens and Lord Marsdale. Though I think men are generally not to his preference.”

“I encouraged the forgery,” Dain said, feeling a fool. “Saved me time in signing my own letters.”

Thomas smiled, put the book aside. “And that,” he said, “is why you need a spymaster.”

“I think I just need you,” Dain said without thought. Thomas flushed a pretty shade of pink and the lines of his face softened into something warm and fond.

“Well,” he said, “here I am,” and gave Dain a sweet, dark look from beneath his lovely lashes.

Dain blushed, preening a little. 

“You _are_ rather desperately in need of a spymaster, though,” Thomas said.

“Well, I won’t argue,” Dain said with a shrug. “I’m no good at this; I’ve said.”

Thomas frowned. “You’re a better leader than you think.”

“I can’t even work out what Jost is up to,” Dain said. He shook his head. “Why he’s pretending to be Morthe, and so on.”

“First off,” Thomas said, “leading the duchy has nothing to do with figuring out what Jost is up to. That’s what I’m for. And second,” he added, “Jost is an idiot.”

“He is?” Dain asked, putting aside the question of his fitness for rule, as it was an argument he didn’t really want to have. Though the way Thomas defended him...no one had ever looked out for him that way other than Tristan, and it settled comfortably somewhere deep inside him.

“He is,” Thomas said. “He couldn’t breach the borders of Morthe even with ten times the number of men he can raise.”

Alarm jolted through Dain. “You think he’s going to _try?”_ he asked. “To breach _Morthe?”_

“Yes, he means to try,” Thomas said. “But first he’s going to try to kill you.”

Dain bolted upright in bed. He was terrible at spotting intrigue, but even worse at hand-to-hand combat. “He what,” he said faintly. 

Jost was thirty years his elder, fit, and had one of Dain’s own court advisors on his side. Dain could see no possible way to defend himself against an attacker like that. Perhaps he should simply flee now, before the delegation arrived. His father would be disappointed in him for abandoning Longmont, but he saw no way he could stand against Jost and win, so perhaps—

“Dain,” Thomas was saying. He’d left his chair to come and slide into bed next to Dain. “You need not fear.” He wrapped his arms around Dain’s sides and nuzzled into his neck. “As though I would ever allow that to happen.” 

“Oh,” Dain said blankly. 

“Jost won’t touch you,” Thomas said. “I swear it,” and then he nipped at Dain’s ear in just _exactly_ the right spot, and Dain’s mind went blessedly, blissfully blank.

* * *

Two nights later, the “Morthe” delegation arrived. Well after dark, Thomas changed his clothing into close-fitting black garments that Dain had never seen before: trousers, tight-fitting tunic, and an over-jacket with a hood that cinched tightly around Thomas’s head. 

“Stay here and do not leave,” Thomas said, then kissed Dain, hard and tight. “I will return soon.”

It was past two bells by the time he slipped back into their quarters, smelling of damp and moss. There was a rustling of paper, and then he shed his clothing near the fire, warming his hands for a moment before returning to Dain in bed.

“You’ve returned,” Dain murmured.

“Said I would,” Thomas said, curling into his side. 

“You smell like castle wall,” Dain said.

“Climbed a few,” Thomas replied, and Dain was too sleepy to decide if that was a joke or not. 

“Find what you need?” he asked, eyes already closing.

“Mm-hm,” Thomas said. “Sleep now.”

* * *

Dain bit his thumbnail, tapping his foot rhythmically on the floor and making all of the papers on his desk vibrate in time. “Look,” he burst out finally, “it’s an unusual request in the first place!”

Thomas, dressing himself in the corner near the wardrobe, said, “I never said it wasn’t.”

“They can’t simply ask for me to meet _alone_ with the trade envoy,” Dain said. “I should have my entire council with me for something like this. Even without all of the—” he waved his hand vaguely in the air—“it would be odd, and we would be within our rights to refuse.”

“We would,” Thomas agreed. “But we’re not going to.”

Dain sighed loudly. “I don’t understand why you won’t tell me _why_ they want to assassinate me. It makes no sense; what gain can they have from it?” He stared sharply at Thomas. “Do you even _know?”_

Thomas finished pulling on his boots and came over to where Dain sat. “Do you trust me?” he asked, for the second time.

Dain looked away pointedly, still drumming his heel on the floor. Thomas waited in silence, and finally Dain turned back toward him. “You know I do,” he said. “But I’m not happy about it.”

“If I tell you, then you’ll know, and when they look at you, they’ll know you know. As it is, you’re only going to look nervous and confused, which is fine. They think you’re a weak leader, and that will play into it.”

“Oh, good,” Dain complained. “I’m so glad I’m such a believably shit leader.”

Thomas leaned down to kiss his forehead. “Not what I said. Are you ready?”

“No,” Dain said, but stood anyway. His heart raced in his chest, and he had no idea how he was supposed to get through this. The envoy from Morthe, who he assumed was actually either the Duke of Jost or one of his people, had sent word requesting a meeting today. Just Dain himself and the envoy, no others. It was odd, but it was also from Morthe, and therefore odd was to be expected. Gerrolt had told him to go ahead and meet, but not to sign anything yet.

Thomas had told him to take no weapons, which he’d protested bitterly, even though he was supremely untalented at hand-to-hand combat. It felt wrong, rather like baring one’s throat in a lion’s den. 

But Dain did trust Thomas. He trusted Thomas with his life. And so he was about to walk, alone and with no weapons, into a meeting with a man who intended to kill him.

He thought of his father and of Tristan. _I pray that today I make you proud,_ he thought. 

“Lead on, Thomas of Morthe,” he said. “For Longmont.”

* * *

Thomas walked with Dain as far as the entrance to the castle. “You’ll go on from here,” he told Dain. “You’ll be fine. Go through the negotiations just as you normally would. I’ll be near. Keep your senses sharp, but don’t reveal anything.”

Dain’s face must have betrayed some of what he was feeling. Thomas laid a hand on his shoulder and gave him a hard, sharp look. “You are the Duke of Longmont,” he said. “This is your castle. And today, you will defend it.”

It was as though Thomas had breathed iron into his spine. Dain stood up straighter, lifted his chin. _I am the Duke of Longmont,_ he thought, and for perhaps the first time, it felt true. Not playacting, not a role. Just him, Dain, the Duke, one and the same.

“You say true, Thomas,” Dain said. Thomas’s eyes burned bright. Dain nodded sharply, then left Thomas behind him, striding through the halls of the only home he had ever known. 

_This place is mine,_ he thought, _and none shall take it from me, not by subterfuge nor by slaughter._

* * *

Four men waited outside the council chambers, dressed as court advisors but bearing the look of guardsmen, with cold, empty eyes. Dain was no spymaster, but it didn’t take a spymaster to spot that these men were uniformly tall and broad-chested, with clothing loose enough to accommodate a sword belt. 

Dain let his eyes sweep over them without comment and entered the chambers. Instead of the promised single envoy, three men sat at the great stone table waiting for him—two he didn’t recognize, and one he very much did. When they saw him, all three stood, bowing their heads deferentially.

“I admit,” Dain said, “that I am surprised to find more delegates than were agreed on.”

The man on the left, who Dain thought might be Jost himself—Dain had not seen Jost in person since Dain was a small boy, and had only the vaguest idea of what he looked like—spoke in answer. “My lord, I am Gannon of Morthe, and this is my advisor, Jace. The terms did specify a single envoy, but Jace implored me to attend, and we thought that perhaps it would be acceptable if you retained one of your own advisors as well.”

“I expect that’s why you’re here, Aron?” Dain asked.

Aron inclined his head, smiling in servile fashion. “As you say, my lord.”

So, actually three against one, Dain thought. His heart began to pound. Thomas had told him to go through the negotiations normally. He would be within his rights to refuse to parlay with an envoy who had already violated the terms. But if he backed out now, there was a chance he wouldn’t even make it to the door. There were three of them, and he was unarmed.

“It is acceptable,” Dain said, “though we hope you do not make a habit of changing terms at the last minute.”

“Of course not,” probably-Jost said. He took a seat facing Dain, and Aron sat next to Dain. The other man remained standing, halfway between Dain and the door. 

“Jace has an old leg injury that flares up,” probably-Jost said. “It’s more comfortable for him to stand.”

“Of course,” Dain said. He folded his hands in his lap to keep anyone from seeing them trembling. “Now,” he said, “how can the Duchy of Longmont help the Duchy of Morthe?” He smiled brightly.

Dain felt as though he were in the open ocean, being circled by sharks. He breathed in slowly and deliberately to still his nerves. 

Probably-Jost smiled with teeth and then drew breath to speak, but before he could, the door to the corridor outside opened, then closed again. Dain twitched in surprise, twisting to see who it was. 

It was Thomas, bringing a tray with mugs on it.

“My Lord Duke,” Thomas said, sounding sweet and soft and young, “I’ve brought cider as you requested.”

_As I—?_

Dain blinked. “Of course, Thomas,” he said. Thomas brought the tray to where Dain sat, placing it carefully in front of him. He bent low over the tray for a moment to arrange the napkin on it just so, fussing like an overly-solicitous servant. And for just a split second, while Aron’s view was blocked by Thomas’s head and the other two men’s views were blocked by Thomas’s body, there was a glint of metal from the tray. 

Just for a second, and then hidden again.

A blade, beneath the white cloth, and no one had seen it but Dain. He forced himself to breathe, to remain still and calm.

“We’ll continue once your servant has finished,” probably-Jost said with a note of irritation. 

“Oh, don’t mind me,” Thomas said, straightening himself. He stood behind Dain, between Dain and the man calling himself Jace. “I’ll only be a moment. Although, I did want to ask something.”

The other three men’s heads snapped towards Thomas.

“This is _extremely_ irregular, Longmont,” the man who Dain was now positive was Jost snapped. “Do you let all of your servants interrupt council business like this?”

Dain gave a half-shrug. “Just this one, really,” he said.

Thomas drew a scroll from his jacket and tossed it onto the table. “It’s only that I found this in my wanderings about the castle yesterday,” he said, “and it’s odd, because it says that the Duke of Jost is the next heir in line for Longmont and it’s signed by you, my lord. Draw your sword, Dain.” This last was spoken without any change in inflection, but Dain did not hesitate, seizing the short sword Thomas had left for him beneath the napkin.

And then many things happened all at once.

Jost leaped to his feet and drew a short sword from his belt, and Jace spun towards Thomas with his own sword drawn. Dain stood and backed away from this melee, nearly tripping over Aron in his haste. 

Thomas’s hands moved in a blur, metal flashing in the filtered sunlight of the council room, and a thin, red line appeared on Jace’s neck. By the time Jace dropped to his knees, hands pressed to the wound on his neck that spurted out his lifeblood, Thomas had vaulted over the table to Jost, using one of his twin jeweled daggers to nick his hand and disarm him.

The door to the chamber opened, and Jost’s guards rushed in, but Thomas was holding a dagger to Jost’s neck with one hand, his other arm wrapped tight around Jost’s chest. “I’ll spill his blood without a second thought,” Thomas said conversationally. “And I doubt things will go well for you, in that case, though _I’m_ not a duke, so who knows, really?”

The guards froze in place, eyes trained on the dagger nearly piercing their duke’s neck.

And then Dain saw movement out of the corner of his eye. He turned, feeling as though he was moving in half-time. With horror, he saw that Aron had drawn a mini-crossbow he’d had stashed away in those bloody robes, and that Aron’s finger was on the trigger, and that the crossbow was pointed at Thomas’s heart.

Without pause for thought, Dain whirled and, for the first time in his life, executed a perfect lunge and thrust that his old fightmaster would have wept to see, ending it with the point of his sword lodged deep in Aron’s chest.

He dropped to his knees next to Aron, whose eyes were wide with shock. “You _cannot have him,”_ he hissed, spittle flying onto Aron’s livid face. _“You cannot.”_

Time passed like treacle for a while. Dain stayed by Aron’s body, trembling like a leaf, only barely aware of his surroundings. Distantly behind him, he heard the commotion of his own guards running in, and Gerrolt’s voice, and at some point someone pulled him away from Aron’s body and wrapped a cloak around him. “Thomas,” he said, his own voice sounding far away.

“I am here, my lord,” Thomas said. “You were incredible, sire. You took down three men single-handed.”

 _Oh,_ Dain thought, seeing in an instant how this story would be told. The perfidious duke of Jost, using one of Dain’s treacherous advisors to forge Dain’s signature to make Jost his heir, then coming to assassinate Dain in his own council chambers. But the brave duke overpowering three men, killing them single-handedly to save the duchy.

While his valet presumably cowered in the corner, Dain thought with bitter amusement. 

“It’s not right, Thomas,” he said lowly. “It’s not right, and I won’t have it. I’m the Duke, and I’ll have you get the credit you’re due.”

Thomas leaned close, speaking into Dain’s ear so that no one else could hear. “You _are_ the Duke,” he said, “and I’m proud of you beyond reason.”

Dain swallowed hard, his eyes suddenly burning.

 _“But,”_ Thomas went on, squeezing Dain’s shoulder tightly with one hand, _“as_ the Duke, you will _do as your spymaster says.”_

Dain managed a nod. “Three men,” he said. “Single-handed.”

“As you say, sire,” Thomas said.

Dain smiled weakly, shaky and trembling with shock. Thomas steered him through the crush of people near the council chambers, managing to avoid having to stop to speak to anyone, and finally got him back into their quarters, with the door closed and barred firmly behind them.

Thomas, who had just saved Dain’s duchy and his life, stood watching him with a soft, adoring smile. He was just as gorgeous as the first day Dain had seen him; more so, because now he knew Thomas inside _and_ out, knew his mind and heart. Knew that their lives were twined together like vines on a trellis. 

_To the devil with it_ , Dain thought. _This is who I am._

“I love you, Thomas,” he said. 

Thomas closed his eyes briefly, inhaled as though drawing in the scent of a fine perfume. He stepped closer and wrapped his arms around Dain’s waist.

“As you say, my lord,” he said. He brushed his lips against Dain’s cheek. “My duke,” he said. And then, into Dain’s ear, “my love.”

Dain sighed with a contentment that went all the way to his bones.

“Do you know,” Thomas said, nipping at his ear, “you asked me once what I wanted.”

Dain’s heart gave a little skip in his chest. He pulled back to look at Thomas’s face. “Yes,” he said, “I did.”

“I’ve thought about it,” Thomas said, “and I think...I’d like to be the consort of a king.” For a split second, Dain felt terror and thought _—who?—_ but then he realized and looked sharply at Thomas. 

“The dominion has no king,” Dain said warily.

“Not yet,” Thomas said.

And he smiled.


	12. Coda

# Coda

_Two years later._

Dain observed the great hall and thought that the steward had really outdone himself on the decorations for this one. He’d have to go and find him and tell him so later. Flower arrangements bloomed out of every corner, and each of the long banquet tables had an elaborate centerpiece with intertwined ribbons in the colors of both Longmont and Morthe.

Thomas dropped into the seat next to Dain’s. “As a first diplomatic alliance, this isn’t bad,” he said. 

Dain gave him a sidelong look. “It’s the first diplomatic alliance that any duchy has had with Morthe in three generations,” he said. “‘Not bad’?”

Thomas laughed. “All right,” he said, “it’s tolerably good, how about that?”

Dain smirked. “You’re impressed,” he said. “Don’t try to pretend.”

“Oh, and now you’re the expert in reading body language?” Thomas said, his blue eyes sparkling. 

_God, he’s beautiful,_ Dain thought. 

“Only yours,” he said, and Thomas gave him a knowing smirk.

There was a clatter behind him and a squeal. Thomas and Dain both turned to see Beatrix approaching, chasing a small blond blur of flailing arms and legs. 

Thomas reached down to haul the toddler onto his lap. “And how fare we, young master Tristan?” he said in a solemn voice.

“Uncle Thomas!” the boy squealed. Thomas grinned and lifted him up into the air, bouncing him in his arms and wandering off to the main festivities. He gave Dain and Beatrix a jaunty wave.

“Can’t believe he learned to say that before he learned to say ‘Father',” Dain murmured to his wife. 

Beatrix laughed. “He says ‘Da’ well enough,” she said. “Stop complaining.”

“Still,” Dain huffed. “It’s an outrage, is what it is.” 

Beatrix smiled at him with genuine affection. “Quite a day for you, my dear, isn’t it?” 

“Mm,” Dain said. “Who’d have thought I’d have even survived my first year as duke, much less…” He waved his hand in the direction of the heavily-laden banquet tables and the crowds of people mingling about. 

“I’d have thought,” she said. “You had so little faith in yourself. And in me, for that matter,” she said with a pointed look.

Dain smiled wryly. “To be fair,” he said in a low voice, “I couldn’t have expected you to take this as well as you did.”

“As soon as I saw him with you, I knew how things stood,” Beatrix said. “And you’ve given me my freedom and our lovely little boy. What complaint can I have?”

“Any complaint you like,” Dain said, looking up to meet her eyes. “You’ve earned it.” 

Beatrix smiled enigmatically. “My aunt and sister both died in childbirth, you know,” she said, seemingly apropos of nothing. “And here I stand.”

“Here you stand,” Dain agreed. “And if someone ever caught your eye—”

“We’ll see,” Beatrix said. “Now go off to find your valet,” she said, making a shooing motion with her hands. “You two start pining whenever you’re apart for longer than twenty minutes.”

“Lies and slander,” Dain said, but he was already rising from his seat. Thomas, across the lawn, waved, gesturing for Dain to come to him.

And Dain, as ever, did.

**Author's Note:**

> The title of this work is from the Adrienne Rich poem "XIII (Dedications)".
> 
> Find me on tumblr at mswhich.tumblr.com.


End file.
